ALVMNVS  BOOK  FYND 


By  Christopher  Morley 

CHIMNEYSMOKE 

HIDE  AND  SEEK 

THE   ROCKING  HORSE 

SONGS    FOR  A    LITTLE    HOUSE 

MINCE   PIE 

New  York:    George  H.  Doran  Company 


This  hearth  teas  built  for  thy  delight, 
For  thee  the  logs  were  sawn, 
For  thee  the  largest  chair,  at  night, 
Is  to  the  chimney  drawn. 

For  thee,  dear  lass,  the  match  was  lit, 

To  yield  the  ruddy  blaze — 

Ma-ji  Jack  Front  ///re  us  joy  of  it 

For  HKIII  i/.  »/<ti>i/  days. 


Illustrated  By 


Qmpanf 


Copyright,  IQIJ ',  1919,  1920  and  1921 , 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


tr 


"How  can  I  turn  from  any  fire 
On  any  mans  hearthstone? 
I  know  the  wonder  and  desire 
That  went  to  build  my  own." 

— RUDYARD  KIPLING,  "The  Fires' 


There  are  a  number  of  poems  in  this  collection 
that  have  not  previously  appeared  in  book  form. 
But,  as  a  few  readers  may  discern,  many  of  the 
verses  are  reprinted  from  Songs  for  a  Little  House 
(1917),  The  Rocking  Horse  (1919)  and  Hide 
and  Seek  ( 1920).  There  is  also  one  piece  revived 
from  the  judicious  obscurity  of  an  early  escapade, 
The  Eighth  Sin,  published  in  Oxford  in  1912, 
It  is  on  Mr.  Thomas  Fogarty's  delightful  and 
sympathetic  drawings  that  this  book  rests  its 
real  claim  to  be  considered  a  new  venture.  To 
Mr.  Fogarty,  and  to  Mr.  George  H.  Doran,  whose 
constant  kindness  and  generosity  contradict  all 
the  traditions  about  publishers  and  minor  poets, 
the  author  expresses  his  permanent  gratitude. 

Roslyn,  Long  Island. 


[vii] 


Qntents 


TO   THE    LITTLE    HOUSE 

A   GRACE   BEFORE    WRITING 

DEDICATION   FOR  A   FIREPLACE 

TAKING  TITLE 

THE    SECRET 

ONLY  A  MATTER  OF  TIME 

AT  THE  MERMAID  CAFETERIA 

OUR  HOUSE 

ON  NAMING  A  HOUSE 
A  HALLOWE'EN  MEMORY 

REFUSING  YOU    IMMORTALITY 
BAYBERRY    CANDLES 
SECRET    LAUGHTER 
SIX  WEEKS  OLD 

[ix] 


PAGE 

19 

20 
21 

22 

25 
26 

28 
29 

31 
32 

35 
36 
37 
38 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A    CHARM  41 

MY  PIPE  42 

THE    542  44 

PETER  PAN  48 

IN  HONOR  OF  TAFFY  TOPAZ  49 

THE  CEDAR  CHEST  5° 

READING  ALOUD  51 

ANIMAL    CRACKERS  52 

THE    MILKMAN  55 

LIGHT  VERSE  5^ 

THE   FURNACE  57 

WASHING  THE  DISHES  58 

THE   CHUUCH  OF   UNBENT  KNEES  6l 
ELEGY   WRITTEN   IN   A   COUNTRY   COAL-BIN              62 

THE  OLD  SWIMMER  66 

THE    MOON-SHEEP  7O 

SMELLS  71 

SMELLS   (JUNIOR)  72 

MAR  QUONG,  CHINESE  LAUNDRYMAN  7$ 

THE  FAT  LITTLE  PURSE  76 

THE  REFLECTION  80 

THE  BALLOON  PEDDLER  82 

LINES  FOR  AN  ECCENTRIC'S  BOOK  PLATE  86 

TO  A  POST-OFFICE  INKWELL  89 

THE  CRIB  9O 

THE   POET  94 

TO  A  DISCARDED  MIRROR  97 

[x] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

TO  A  CHILD  98 

TO  A   VERY   YOUNG   GENTLEMAN  1OO 

TO  AN   OLD-FASHIONED   POET  1C>4 

BURNING  LEAVES  IN  SPRING  lO^ 

BURNING    LEAVES,    NOVEMBER  lo6 

A    VALENTINE    GAME  IOJ 

FOR   A    BIRTHDAY  lo8 

KEATS  1  1  1 

TO  H.  F.  M.,  A  SONNET  IN  SUNLIGHT  113 

QUICKENING  114 

AT    A    WINDOW    SILL  115 

THE  RIVER  OF  LIGHT  1  l6 

OF  HER  GLORIOUS  MADNESS  1  l8 

IN  AN  AUCTION  ROOM  1  1Q 
EPITAPH  FOR  A  POET  WHO  WROTE  NO  POETRY     12O 

SONNET   BY   A   GEOMETER  121 

TO  A   VAUDEVILLE   TERRIER  122 

TO  AN    OLD    FRIEND  12  ^ 

TO  A  BURLESQUE   SOUBRETTE  126 

THOUGHTS   WHILE   PACKING  A  TRUNK  12Q 

STREETS  13O 

TO  THE  ONLY  BEGETTER  131 

PEDOMETER  133 

HOSTAGES  134 

ARS    DURA  137 

O.     HENRY APOTHECARY  138 

FOR  THE  CENTENARY  OF   KEATS's  SONNET  139 

[xi] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

TWO  O'CLOCK  140 

THE  COMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER  141 

_THE    WEDDED   LOVER  ld.2 

TO  YOU,  REMEMBERING  THE  PAST  143 

CHARLES   AND    MARY  144 

TO  A   GRANDMOTHER  145 

DIARISTS  146 

THE    LAST    SONNET  147 

THE   SAVAGE  148 

ST.    PAUL'S   AND   WOOLWORTH  149 

ADVICE  TO  A  CITY  1  £O 

THE   TELEPHONE   DIRECTORY  151 

GREEN   ESCAPE  1  £3 

VESPER  SONG  FOR  COMMUTERS  1  $J 

THE   ICE   WAGON  158 

AT   A    MOVIE    THEATRE  l6l 

SONNETS  IN  A  LODGING  HOUSE  163 

THE    MAN    WITH    THE    HOE    (PRESS)  l6j 

DO  YOU   EVER  FEEL  LIKE  GOD*?  l68 

RAPID    TRANSIT  iyO 

CAUGHT   IN    THE   UNDERTOW  IJ  I 

TO  HIS  BROWN-EYED  MISTRESS  172 

PEACE  173 
SONG,   IN   DEPRECATION   OF    PULCHRITUDE             175 

MOUNTED  POLICE  176 
TO     HIS     MISTRESS,     DEPLORING    THAT     HE     IS 

NOT  AN   ELIZABETHAN   GALAXY  17Q 

fxii] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  INTRUDER  l8l 

TIT    FOR   TAT  l82 

SONG  FOR  A   LITTLE   HOUSE  185 

THE    PLUMPUPPETS  l86 

DANDY  DANDELION  1QO 

THE    HIGH    CHAIR  1Q2 

LOVE  AT  FIRST  SIGHT  1Q3 

AUTUMN    COLORS  1Q7 

THE    LAST    CRICKET  ig8 

TO  LOUISE  igg 

CHRISTMAS  EVE  203 
EPITAPH  ON  THE  PROOFREADER  OF  THE 

ENCYCLOPEDIA  BRITANNICA  2C>4 

THE  MUSIC  BOX  2C>5 

TO  LUATH  2O9 

THOUGHTS  ON  REACHING  LAND  212 

A  SYMPOSIUM  214 
TO  A  TELEPHONE  OPERATOR  WHO  HAS  A 

BAD   COLD  2l8 

NURSERY  RHYMES  FOR  THE  TENDER-HEARTED  21Q 

THE  TWINS  227 

A  PRINTER'S  MADRIGAL  228 

THE  POET  ON  THE  HEARTH  230 

O  PRAISE  ME  NOT  THE  COUNTRY  23! 

A  STONE  IN  ST.  PAUL?S  GRAVEYARD  235 

THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  CURB  236 

THE  ISLAND  240 

[xiii] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

SUNDAY   NIGHT  242 

ENGLAND,    JULY,    1Q13  246 

CASUALTY  25O 

A  GRUB  STREET  RECESSIONAL  25! 
PRELIMINARY  INSTRUCTIONS  FORA  FUNERAL 

SERVICE  253 


[xiv] 


Illustrations 


This  hearth  was  built  for  thy  delight—  Frontispiece 

PAGE 

And  by  a  friend's  bright  gift  of  wine, 

I  dedicate  this  house   of  mine  23 

And  of  all  man's  felicities—  33 

A  little  world  he  feels  and  sees: 

His  mother's  arms,  his  mother's  knees —  39 

The  5-'42  45 

And  Daddy  once  said  he  would  like  to  be  me 

Having  cocoa  and  animals  once  more  for  tea!                            53 

But  heavy  feeding  complicates 

The  task  by  soiling  many  plates  59 

How  ill  avail,  on  such  a  frosty  night  63 

The  old  swimmer  67 

But  Katie,  the  cook,  is  more  splendid  than  all —                          73 

Perhaps  it's  a  ragged  child  crying  77 

The  Balloon  Peddler  83 

//  you  appreciate  it  more 

Than  I — why  don't  return  it!  87 

And  then  one  night —  91 

[xv] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

The  human  cadence  and  the  subtle  chime 

Of  little  laughters—  95 

W hat  years  of  youthful  ills  and  pangs  and  bumps —  101 

A  Birthday  109 

You  must  be  rigid  servant  of  your  art!  123 

You  came,  and  impudent  and  deuce-may-care 

Danced  where  the  gutter  flamed  'with  footlight  fire  127 

Hostages  135 

My  eyes  still  pine  for  the  comely  line 

Of  an   outbound  vessel's  hull  155 

A  man  ain't  so  secretive,  never  cares 

What  kind  of  private  papers  he  leaves  lay —  165 

Mounted  Police  177 

Courtesy  183 

The  Plumpuppets  187 

.  .  .  It's  hard  to  have  to  tell 

How  unresponsive  I  have  found  her  195 

.  .  .  When  you  see,  this  Great  First  Time, 

Lit  candles   on  a  Christmas  Tree!  201 

The  music  box  207 

Solugubrious  215 

In  the  midnight,  like  yourself, 

I  explore  the  pantry  shelf!  221 

The    Twins  227 

O  praise  me  not  the  country  233 

The  wail  of  sickly  children —  237 

Ah,  does  the  butcher — heartless  clown — 

Beget  that  shadow  on   her  brow?  243 


[xvi] 


TO  THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

DEAR  little  house,  dear  shabby  street, 
Dear  books  and  beds  and  food  to  eat! 
How  feeble  words  are  to  express 
The  facets  of  your  tenderness. 

How  white  the  sun  comes  through  the  pane ! 
In  tinkling  music  drips  the  rain! 
How  burning  bright  the  furnace  glows ! 
What  paths  to  shovel  when  it  snows ! 

O  dearly  loved  Long  Island  trains! 
O  well  remembered  joys  and  pains.  .  .  . 
How  near  the  housetops  Beauty  leans 
Along  that  little  street  in  Queens! 

Let  these  poor  rhymes  abide  for  proof 
Joy  dwells  beneath  a  humble  roof; 
Heaven  is  not  built  of  country  seats 
But  little  queer  suburban  streets! 

March,  1917. 

[19] 


"  ^  "  "l  'C il  I  M  N 'E  Y  S  M  O  K  E 


A  GRACE  BEFORE  WRITING 

THIS  is  a  sacrament,  I  think! 
Holding  the  bottle  toward  the  light, 
As  blue  as  lupin  gleams  the  ink; 
May  Truth  be  with  me  as  I  write! 

That  small  dark  cistern  may  afford 
Reunion  with  some  vanished  friend, — 

And  with  this  ink  I  have  just  poured 
May  none  but  honest  words  be  penned ! 


[20] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


DEDICATION    FOR   A   FIREPLACE 

THIS  hearth  was  built  for  thy  delight, 
For  thee  the  logs  were  sawn, 
For  thee  the  largest  chair,  at  night, 
Is  to  the  chimney  drawn. 

For  thee,  dear  lass,  the  match  was  lit 

To  yield  the  ruddy  blaze- 
May  Jack  Frost  give  us  joy  of  it 

For  many,  many  days. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


TAKING    TITLE 

TO  make  this  house  my  very  own 
Could  not  be  done  by  law  alone. 
Though  covenant  and  deed  convey 
Absolute  fee,  as  lawyers  say, 
There  are  domestic  rites  beside 
By  which  this  house  is  sanctified. 

By  kindled  fire  upon  the  hearth, 
By  planted  pansies  in  the  garth, 
By  food,  and  by  the  quiet  rest 
Of  those  brown  eyes  that  I  love  best, 
And  by  a  friend's  bright  gift  of  wine, 
I  dedicate  this  house  of  mine. 

When  all  but  I  are  soft  abed 
I  trail  about  my  quiet  stead 
A  wreath  of  blue  tobacco  smoke 
(A  charm  that  evil  never  broke) 
And  bring  my  ritual  to  an  end 
By  giving  shelter  to  a  friend. 

These  done,  O  dwelling,  you  become 
Not  just  a  house,  but  truly  Home! 

[22] 


And  by  a  friend's  bright  gift  of  wine, 
I  dedicate  this  house  of  mine. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE    SECRET 

IT  was  the  House  of  Quietness 
To  which  I  came  at  dusk; 
The  garth  was  lit  with  roses 
And  heavy  with  their  musk. 

The  tremulous  tall  poplar  trees 
Stood  whispering  around, 

The  gentle  flicker  of  their  plumes 
More  quiet  than  no  sound. 

And  as  I  wondered  at  the  door 
What  magic  might  be  there, 

The  Lady  of  Sweet  Silences 
Came  softly  down  the  stair. 


[25] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


ONLY   A    MATTER    OF   TIME 

DOWN-SLIPPING  Time,  sweet,  swift,  and 
shallow  stream, 

Here,  like  a  boulder,  lies  this  afternoon 
Across  your  eager  flow.     So  you  shall  stay, 
Deepened  and  dammed,  to  let  me  breathe  and  be. 
Your  troubled  fluency,  your  running  gleam 
Shall  pause,  and  circle  idly,  still  and  clear: 
The  while  I  lie  and  search  your  glassy  pool 
Where,  gently  coiling  in  their  lazy  round, 
Unseparable  minutes  drift  and  swim, 
Eddy  and  rise  and  brim.     And  I  will  see 
How  many  crystal  bubbles  of  slack  Time 
The  mind  can  hold  and  cherish  in  one  Now! 

Now,  for  one  conscious  vacancy  of  sense, 
The  stream  is  gathered  in  a  deepening  pond, 
Not  a  mere  moving  mirror.     Through  the  sharp 
Correct  reflection  of  the  standing  scene 
The  mind  can  dip,  and  cleanse  itself  with  rest, 
And  see,  slow  spinning  in  the  lucid  gold, 
Your  liquid  motes,  imperishable  Time. 


[26] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

It  cannot  be.     The  runnel  slips  away: 
The  clear  smooth  downward  sluice  begins  again, 
More  brightly  slanting  for  that  trembling  pause, 
Leaving  the  sense  its  conscious  vague  unease 
As  when  a  sonnet  flashes  on  the  mind, 
Trembles  and  burns  an  instant,  and  is  gone. 


[27] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


AT  THE  MERMAID  CAFETERIA 

TRUTH  is  enough  for  prose : 
Calmly  it  goes 
To  tell  just  what  it  knows. 

For  verse,  skill  will  suffice — 
Delicate,  nice 
Casting  of  verbal  dice. 

Poetry,  men  attain 

By  subtler  pain 

More  flagrant  in  the  brain — 

An  honesty  unfeigned, 

A  heart  unchained, 

A  madness  well  restrained. 


[28] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


OUR   HOUSE 

IT  should  be  yours,  if  I  could  build 
The  quaint  old  dwelling  I  desire, 
With  books  and  pictures  bravely  filled 
And  chairs  beside  an  open  fire, 
White-panelled  rooms  with  candles  lit — 
I  lie  awake  to  think  of  it! 

A  dial  for  the  sunny  hours, 

A  garden  of  old-fashioned  flowers — 

Say  marigolds  and  lavender 

And  mignonette  and  fever-few, 

And  Judas-tree  and  maidenhair 

And  candytuft  and  thyme  and  rue — 

All  these  for  you  to  wander  in. 

A  Chinese  carp  (called  Mandarin} 
Waving  a  sluggish  silver  fin 
Deep  in  the  moat :  so  tame  he  comes 
To  lip  your  fingers  offering  crumbs. 
Tall  chimneys,  like  long  listening  ears, 
White  shutters,  ivy  green  and  thick, 
And  walls  of  ruddy  Tudor  brick 
Grown  mellow  with  the  passing  years. 

[29] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

And  windows  with  small  leaded  panes, 
Broad  window-seats  for  when  it  rains; 
A  big  blue  bowl  of  pot  pourri 
And — yes,  a  Spanish  chestnut  tree 
To  coin  the  autumn's  minted  gold. 
A  summer  house  for  drinking  tea- 
All  these  (just  think!)  for  you  and  me. 

A  staircase  of  the  old  black  wood 
Cut  in  the  days  of  Robin  Hood, 
And  banisters  worn  smooth  as  glass 
Down  which  your  hand  will  lightly  pass; 
A  piano  with  pale  yellow  keys 
For  wistful   twilight  melodies, 
And  dusty  bottles  in  a  bin- 
All  these  for  you  to  revel  in! 

But  when*?     Ah  well,  until  that  time 
We'll  habit  in  this  house  of  rhyme. 
1912 


[30] 


CHIMNEYS  MOKE 


ON   NAMING  A   HOUSE 


w 


HEN  I  a  householder  became 
I  had  to  give  my  house  a  name. 


I  thought  I'd  call  it  "Poplar  Trees," 
Or  "Widdershins"  or  "Velvet  Bees," 

Or  "Just  Beneath  a  Star." 
I    thought    of    "House    Where    Plumbings 

Freeze," 

Or  "As  You  Like  it,"  "If  You  Please," 
Or  "Nicotine"  or  "Bread  and  Cheese," 

"Full  Moon"  or  "Doors  Ajar." 

But  still  I  sought  some  subtle  charm, 
Some  rune  to  guard  my  roof  from  harm 

And  keep  the  devil  far; 
I  thought  of  this,  and  I  was  saved! 
I  had  my  letter-heads  engraved 

The  House  Where  Brown  Eyes  Are. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


A  HALLOWE'EN   MEMORY 

DO  you  remember,  Heart's  Desire, 
The  night  when  Hallowe'en  first  came*? 
The  newly  dedicated  fire, 

The  hearth  unsanctified  by  flame*? 

How  anxiously  we  swept  the  bricks 

(How  tragic,  were  the  draught  not  right!) 

And  then  the  blaze  enwrapped  the  sticks 
And  filled  the  room  with  dancing  light. 

We  could  not  speak,  but  only  gaze, 
Nor  half  believe  what  we  had  seen — 

Our  home,  our  hearth,  our  golden  blaze, 
Our  cider  mugs,  our  Hallowe'en ! 

And  then  a  thought  occurred  to  me — 
We  ran  outside  with  sudden  shout 

And  looked  up  at  the  roof,  to  see 

Our  own  dear  smoke  come  drifting  out. 

And  of  all  man's  felicities 

The  very  subtlest  one,  say  I, 
Is  when,  for  the  first  time,  he  sees 

His  hearthfire  smoke  against  the  sky. 

[32] 


of  flZZ  man's  felicities 
The  very  subtlest  one,  say  7, 
7s  urftift,  /or  £/i£  ^rs^  time,  lie  sees 
His  hearthfire  smoke  against  the  sky. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


REFUSING   YOU    IMMORTALITY 

IF  I  should  tell,  unstinted, 
Your  beauty  and  your  grace, 
All  future  lads  would  whisper 

Traditions  of  your  face; 
If  I  made  public  tumult 

Your  mirth,  your  queenly  state, 
Posterity  would  grumble 
That  it  was  born  too  late. 

I  will  not  frame  your  beauty 

In  bright  undying  phrase, 
Nor  blaze  it  as  a  legend 

For  unborn  men  to  praise — 
For  why  should  future  lovers 

Be  saddened  and  depressed4? 
Deluded,  let  them  fancy 

Their  own  girls  loveliest! 


[35] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


BAYBERRY    CANDLES 

DEAR  sweet,  when  dusk  comes  up  the  hill, 
The  fire  leaps  high  with  golden  prongs; 
I  place  along  the  chimneysill 
The  tiny  candles  of  my  songs. 

And  though  unsteadily  they  burn, 
As  evening  shades  from  gray  to  blue 

Like  candles  they  will  surely  learn 
To  shine  more  clear,  for  love  of  you. 


[36] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


SECRET   LAUGHTER 

"I  had  a  secret  laughter." 

— Walter  de  la  Mare. 

THERE  is  a  secret  laughter 
That  often  comes  to  me, 
And  though  I  go  about  my  work 
As  humble  as  can  be, 
There  is  no  prince  or  prelate 

I  envy — no,  not  one. 
No  evil  can  befall  me — 
By  God,  I  have  a  son! 


[37] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


SIX    WEEKS    OLD 

HE  is  so  small,  he  does  not  know 
The  summer  sun,  the  winter  snow ; 
The  spring  that  ebbs  and  comes  again, 
All  this  is  far  beyond  his  ken. 

A  little  world  he  feels  and  sees: 
His  mother's  arms,  his  mother's  knees; 
He  hides  his  face  against  her  breast, 
And  does  not  care  to  learn  the  rest. 


[38] 


A  little  world  he  feels  and  sees: 

His  mother's  arms,  his  mother's  knees — 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


A   CHARM 

For  Our  New  Fireplace, 
To  Stop  Its  Smoking 

OWOOD,  burn  bright;  O  flame,  be  quick; 
O  smoke,  draw  cleanly  up  the  flue— 
My  lady  chose  your  every  brick 
And  sets  her  dearest  hopes  on  you! 

Logs  cannot  burn,  nor  tea  be  sweet, 
Nor  white  bread  turn  to  crispy  toast, 
Until  the  charm  be  made  complete 
By  love,  to  lay  the  sooty  ghost. 

And  then,  dear  books,  dear  waiting  chairs, 

Dear  china  and  mahogany, 

Draw  close,  for  on  the  happy  stairs 

My  brown-eyed  girl  comes  down  for  tea! 


[41] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

MY   PIPE 

MY  PIPE  is  old 
And  caked  with  soot; 
My  wife  remarks: 
"How  can  you  put 
That  horrid  relic, 
So  unclean, 
Inside  your  mouth? 
The  nicotine 
Is  strong  enough 
To  stupefy 

A  Swedish  plumber." 
I  reply: 

"This  is  the  kind 
Of  pipe  I  like : 
I  fill  it  full 
Of  Happy  Strike, 
Or  Barking  Cat 
Or  Cabman's  Puff, 
Or  Brooklyn  Bridge 
(That  potent  stuff) 
Or  Chaste  Embraces, 
Knacker's  Twist, 
Old  Honeycomb 
Or  Niggerfist. 

[42] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

I  clamp  my  teeth 
Upon  its  stem — 
It  is  my  bliss, 
My  diadem. 
Whatever  Fate 
May  do  to  me, 
This  is  my  favorite 

B 

B  B. 

For  this  dear  pipe 
You  feign  to  scorn 
I  smoked  the  night 
The  boy  was  born." 


[43] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE  5:42 

LILAC,  violet,  and  rose 
Ardently  the  city  glows; 
Sunset  glory,  purely  sweet, 
Gilds  the  dreaming  byway-street, 
And,  above  the  Avenue, 
Winter  dusk  is  deepening  blue. 

(Then,  across  Long  Island  meadows, 
Darker,  darker,  grow  the  shadows: 
Patience,  little  waiting  lass! 
Laggard  minutes  slowly  pass; 
Patience,  laughs  the  yellow  fire: 
Homeward  bound  is  heart's  desire!) 

Hark,  adown  the  canyon  street 
Flows  the  merry  tide  of  feet; 
High  the  golden  buildings  loom 
Blazing  in  the  purple  gloom; 
All  the  town  is  set  with  stars, 
Homeward  chant  the  Broadway  cars! 

[44] 


The  5:. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

All  down  Thirty-second  Street 
Homeward,  Homeward,  say  the  feet! 
Tramping  men,  uncouth  to  view, 
Footsore,  weary,  thrill  anew; 
Gone  the  ringing  telephones, 
Blessed  nightfall  now  atones, 
Casting  brightness  on  the  snow 
Golden  the  train  windows  go. 

Then  (how  long  it  seems)  at  last 

All  the  way  is  overpast. 

Heart  that  beats  your  muffled  drum, 

Lo,  your  venturer  is  come! 

Wide  the  door!     Leap  high,  O  fire! 

Home  at  length  is  heart's  desire! 

Gone  is  weariness  and  fret, 

At  the  sill  warm  lips  are  met. 

Once  again  may  be  renewed 

The  conjoined  beatitude. 


[47] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


PETER   PAN 

"The  boy  for  whom  Barrie  wrote  Peter  Pan — 
the  original  of  Peter  Pan — has  died  in  battle." 

— New  York  Times. 


A 


ND  Peter  Pan  is  dead?     Not  so! 

When  mothers  turn  the  lights  down 

low 

And  tuck  their  little  sons  in  bed, 
They  know  that  Peter  is  not  dead. 


That  little  rounded  blanket-hill; 
Those  prayer-time  eyes,  so  deep  and  still- 
However  wise  and  great  a  man 
He  grows,  he  still  is  Peter  Pan. 

And  mothers'  ways  are  often  queer: 
They  pause  in  doorways,  just  to  hear 
A  tiny  breathing;  think  a  prayer; 
And  then  go  tiptoe  down  the  stair. 


[48] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


IN  HONOR  OF  TAFFY  TOPAZ 

TAFFY,  the  topaz-colored  cat, 
Thinks  now  of  this  and  now  of  that, 
But  chiefly  of  his  meals. 
Asparagus,  and  cream,  and  fish, 
Are  objects  of  his  Freudian  wish; 
What  you  don't  give,  he  steals. 

His  gallant  heart  is  strongly  stirred 
By  clink  of  plate  or  flight  of  bird, 
He  has  a  plumy  tail; 
At  night  he  treads  on  stealthy  pad 
As  merry  as  Sir  Galahad 
A-seeking  of  the  Grail. 

His  amiable  amber  eyes 
Are  very  friendly,  very  wise; 
Like  Buddha,  grave  and  fat, 
He  sits,  regardless  of  applause, 
And  thinking,  as  he  kneads  his  paws, 
What  fun  to  be  a  cat ! 


[49] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE  CEDAR   CHEST 

HER  mind  is  like  her  cedar  chest 
Wherein  in  quietness  do  rest 
The  wistful  dreamings  of  her  heart 
In  fragrant  folds  all  laid  apart. 

There,  put  away  in  sprigs  of  rhyme 
Until  her  life's  full  blossom-time, 
Flutter  (like  tremulous  little  birds) 
Her  small  and  sweet  maternal  words. 


[50] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


READING   ALOUD 

ONCE  we  read  Tennyson  aloud 
In  our  great  fireside  chair; 
Between  the  lines,  my  lips  could  touch 
Her  April-scented  hair. 

How  very  fond  I  was,  to  think 

The  printed  poems  fair, 
When  close  within  my  arms  I  held 

A  living  lyric  there! 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


ANIMAL   CRACKERS 

ANIMAL  crackers,  and  cocoa  to  drink, 
That  is  the  finest  of  suppers,  I  think; 
When  I'm  grown  up  and  can  have  what  I  please 
I  think  I  shall  always  insist  upon  these. 

What  do  you  choose  when  you're  offered  a  treat? 
When  Mother  says,  "What  would  you  like  best 

to  eat?' 

Is  it  waffles  and  syrup,  or  cinnamon  toast? 
It's  cocoa  and  animals  that  /  love  most! 

The  kitchen's  the  cosiest  place  that  I  know: 
The  kettle  is  singing,  the  stove  is  aglow, 
And  there  in  the  twilight,  how  jolly  to  see 
The  cocoa  and  animals  waiting  for  me. 

Daddy  and  Mother  dine  later  in  state, 
With  Mary  to  cook  for  them,  Susan  to  wait; 
But  they  don't  have  nearly  as  much  fun  as  I 
Who  eat  in  the  kitchen  with  Nurse  standing  by; 
And  Daddy  once  said,  he  would  like  to  be  me 
Having  cocoa  and  animals  once  more  for  tea ! 


[52] 


And  Daddy  once  said  he  would  like  to  be  me 
Having  cocoa  and  animals  once  more  for  tea! 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE   MILKMAN 

EARLY  in  the  morning,  when  the  dawn  is  on 
the  roofs, 
You  hear  his  wheels  come  rolling,  you  hear  his 

horse's  hoofs; 
You  hear  the  bottles  clinking,  and  then  he  drives 

away: 

You  yawn  in  bed,  turn  over,  and  begin  another 
day! 

The  old-time  dairy  maids  are  dear  to  every  poet's 

heart— 

I'd  rather  be  the  dairy  man  and  drive  a  little  cart, 
And  bustle  round  the  village  in  the  early  morning 

blue, 
And  hang  my  reins  upon  a  hook,  as  I've  seen 

Casey  do. 


[55] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


LIGHT   VERSE 

AT  night  the  gas  lamps  light  our  street, 
Electric  bulbs  our  homes; 
The  gas  is  billed  in  cubic  feet, 
Electric  light  in  ohms. 

But  one  illumination  still 

Is  brighter  far,  and  sweeter; 
It  is  not  figured  in  a  bill, 

Nor  measured  by  a  meter. 

More  bright  than  lights  that  money  buys, 

More  pleasing  to  discerners, 
The  shining  lamps  of  Helen's  eyes, 

Those  lovely  double  burners! 


[56] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE    FURNACE 

AT  night  I  opened 
The  furnace  door: 
The  warm  glow  brightened 
The  cellar  floor. 

The  fire  that  sparkled 

Blue  and  red, 
Kept  small  toes  cosy 

In  their  bed. 

As  up  the  stair 

So  late  I  stole, 
I  said  my  prayer: 

Thank  God  for  coal! 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


WASHING  THE   DISHES 

WHEN  we  on  simple  rations  sup 
How  easy  is  the  washing  up ! 
But  heavy  feeding  complicates 
The  task  by  soiling  many  plates. 

And  though  I  grant  that  I  have  prayed 
That  we  might  find  a  serving-maid, 
I'd  scullion  all  my  days,  I  think, 
To  see  Her  smile  across  the  sink! 

I  wash,  She  wipes.     In  water  hot 
I  souse  each  dish  and  pan  and  pot; 
While  Taffy  mutters,  purrs,  and  begs, 
And  rubs  himself  against  my  legs. 

The  man  who  never  in  his  life 
Has  washed  the  dishes  with  his  wife 
Or  polished  up  the  silver  plate — 
He  still  is  largely  celibate. 

One  warning:  there  is  certain  ware 
That  must  be  handled  with  all  care: 
The  Lord  Himself  will  give  you  up 
If  you  should  drop  a  willow  cup! 

[58] 


But  heavy  feeding  complicates 
The  task  by  soiling  many  plates. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE  CHURCH  OF  UNBENT  KNEES 

AS  I  went  by  the  church  to-day 
I  heard  the  organ  cry; 
And  goodly  folk  were  on  their  knees, 
But  I  went  striding  by. 

My  minster  hath  a  roof  more  vast : 
My  aisles  are  oak  trees  high; 

My  altar-cloth  is  on  the  hills, 
My  organ  is  the  sky. 

I  see  my  rood  upon  the  clouds, 
The  winds,  my  chanted  choir; 

My  crystal  windows,  heaven-glazed, 
Are  stained  with  sunset  fire. 

The  stars,  the  thunder,  and  the  rain, 
White  sands  and  purple  seas— 

These  are  His  pulpit  and  His  pew, 
My  God  of  Unbent  Knees ! 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY 
COAL-BIN 


furnace    tolls    the    knell    of    falling 
JL     steam, 

The  coal  supply  is  virtually  done, 
And  at  this  price,  indeed  it  does  not  seem 
As  though  we  could  afford  another  ton. 


Now  fades  the  glossy,  cherished  anthracite; 

The   radiators   lose   their  temperature: 
How  ill  avail,  on  such  a  frosty  night, 

The  "short  and  simple  flannels  of  the  poor.3 

Though  in  the  icebox,  fresh  and  newly  laid, 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  omelet  sleep, 

No  eggs  for  breakfast  till  the  bill  is  paid: 
We  cannot  cook  again  till  coal  is  cheap. 

/ 

Can  Morris-chair  or  papier-mache  bust 

Revivify  the  failing  pressure-gauge? 
Chop  up  the  grand  piano  if  you  must, 
And  burn  the  East  Aurora  parrot-cage! 

[62] 


How  ill  avail,  on  such  a  frosty  night. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


Full  many  a  can  of  purest  kerosene 

The  dark  unfathomed  tanks  of  Standard  Oil 

Shall  furnish  me,  and  with  their  aid  I  mean 
To  bring  my  morning  coffee  to  a  boil. 


[65] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE    OLD    SWIMMER 

1    OFTEN  wander  on  the  beach 
Where  once,  so  brown  of  limb, 
The  biting  air,  the  roaring  surf 
Summoned  me  to  swim. 

I  see  my  old  abundant  youth 
Where  combers  lean  and  spill, 
And  though  I  taste  the  foam  no  more 
Other  swimmers  will. 


Oh,  good  exultant  strength  to  meet 
The  arching  wall  of  green, 
To  break  the  crystal,  swirl,  emerge 
Dripping,  taut,  and  clean. 

To  climb  the  moving  hilly  blue, 
To  dive  in  ecstasy 
And  feel  the  salty  chill  embrace 
Arm  and  rib  and  knee. 

What  brave  and  vanished  laughter  then 
And  tingling  thighs  to  run, 
[66] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

What  warm  and  comfortable  sands 
Dreaming  in  the  sun. 

The  crumbling  water  spreads  in  snow, 
The  surf  is  hissing  still, 
And  though  I  kiss  the  salt  no  more 
Other  swimmers   will. 


[69] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE   MOON-SHEEP 

THE  moon  seems  like  a  docile  sheep, 
She  pastures  while  all  people  sleep; 
But  sometimes,  when  she  goes  astray, 
She  wanders  all  alone  by  day. 

Up  in  the  clear  blue  morning  air 
We  are  surprised  to  see  her  there, 
Grazing  in  her  woolly  white, 
Waiting  the  return  of  night. 

When  dusk  lets  down  the  meadow  bars 
She  greets  again  her  lambs,  the  stars! 


[70] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


SMELLS 

WHY  is  it  that  the  poets  tell 
So  little  of  the  sense  of  smell? 
These  are  the  odors  I  love  well: 

The  smell  of  coffee  freshly  ground; 
Or  rich  plum  pudding,  holly  crowned; 
Or  onions  fried  and  deeply  browned. 

The  fragrance  of  a  fumy  pipe; 
The  smell  of  apples,  newly  ripe; 
And  printers'  ink  on  leaden  type. 

Woods  by  moonlight  in  September 
Breathe  most  sweet;  and  I  remember 
Many  a  smoky  camp-fire  ember. 

Camphor,  turpentine,  and  tea, 
The  balsam  of  a  Christmas  tree, 
These  are  whiffs  of  gramarye.  .  . 
A  ship  smells  best  of  all  to  me! 


[71] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


SMELLS  (JUNIOR) 

MY  Daddy  smells  like  tobacco  and  books, 
Mother,  like  lavender  and  listerine; 
Uncle  John  carries  a  whifT  of  cigars, 

Nannie  smells  starchy  and  soapy  and  clean. 

Shandy,  my  dog,  has  a  smell  of  his  own 

(When  he's  been  out  in   the   rain  he   smells 
most) ; 

But  Katie,  the  cook,  is  more  splendid  than  all — 
She  smells  exactly  like  hot  buttered  toast! 


[72] 


But  Katie,  the  cook,  is  more  splendid  than  all— 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


MAR  QUONG,  CHINESE  LAUNDRYMAN 

I    LIKE  the  Chinese  laundryman: 
He  smokes  a  pipe  that  bubbles, 
And  seems,  as  far  as  I  can  tell, 
A  man  with  but  few  troubles. 
He  has  much  to  do,  no  doubt, 
But  also  much  to  think  about. 

Most  men  (for  instance  I  myself) 

Are  spending,  at  all  times, 

All  our  hard-earned  quarters, 

Our  nickels  and  our  dimes: 

With  Mar  Quong  it's  the  other  way — 

He  takes  in  small  change  every  day. 

Next  time  you  call  for  collars 
In  his  steamy  little  shop, 
Observe  how  tight  his  pigtail 
Is  coiled  and  piled  on  top. 
But  late  at  night  he  lets  it  hang 
And   thinks  of  the   Yang-tse-kiang. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE    FAT    LITTLE    PURSE 

ON  Saturdays,  after  the  baby 
Is  bathed,  fed,  and  sleeping  serene, 
His  mother,  as  quickly  as  may  be, 
Arranges  the  household  routine. 
She  rapidly  makes  herself  pretty 

And  leaves  the  young  limb  with  his  nurse, 
Then  gaily  she  starts  for  the  city, 
And  with  her  the  fat  little  purse. 


She  trips  through  the  crowd  at  the  station, 

To  the  rendezvous  spot  where  we  meet, 
And  keeping  her  eyes  from  temptation, 

She  avoids  the  most  windowy  street! 
She  is  off  for  the  Weekly  Adventure; 

To  her  comrade  for  better  and  worse 
She  says,  "Never  mind,  when  you've  spent  your 

Last  bit,  here's  the  fat  little  purse."  ^      f 

Apart,  in  her  thrifty  exchequer, 

She  has  hidden  what  must  not  be  spent: 

Enough  for  the  butcher  and  baker, 
Katie's  wages,  and  milkman,  and  rent; 

[76] 


Perhaps  it's  a  ragged  child  crying 


CHIMNEY  SMOKE 

But  the  rest  of  her  brave  little  treasure 
She  is  gleeful  and  prompt  to  disburse — 

What  a  richness  of  innocent  pleasure 
Can  come  from  her  fat  little  purse ! 

But  either  by  giving  or  buying, 

The  little  purse  does  not  stay  fat — 
Perhaps  it's  a  ragged  child  crying, 

Perhaps  it's  a  "pert  little  hat." 
And  the  bonny  brown  eyes  that  were  brightened 

By  pleasures  so  quaint  and  diverse, 
Look  up  at  me,  wistful  and  frightened, 

To  see  such  a  thin  little  purse. 

The  wisest  of  all  financiering 

Is  that  which  is  done  by  our  wives: 
By  some  little  known  profiteering 

They  add  twos  and  twos  and  make  fives; 
And,  husband,  if  you  would  be  learning 

The  secret  of  thrift,  it  is  terse: 
Invest  the  great  part  of  your  earning 

In  her  little,  fat  little  purse. 


[79] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE   REFLECTION 

(To  N.  B.  D.) 

I  HAVE  not  heard  her  voice,  nor  seen  her 
face, 

Nor  touched  her  hand; 
And  yet  some  echo  of  her  woman's  grace 
I  understand. 

I  have  no  picture  of  her  lovelihood, 

Her  smile,  her  tint; 
But  that  she  is  both  beautiful  and  good 

I  have  true  hint. 

In  all  that  my  friend  thinks  and  says,  I  see 

Her  mirror  true ; 
His  thought  of  her  is  gentle ;  she  must  be 

All  gentle  too. 

In  all  his  grief  or  laughter,  work  or  play, 

Each  mood  and  whim, 
How  brave  and  tender,  day  by  common  day, 

She  speaks  through  him ! 

[80] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


Therefore  I  say  I  know  her,  be  her  face 

Or  dark  or  fair— 
For  when  he  shows  his  heart's  most  secret  place 

I  see  her  there ! 


[81] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE  BALLOON   PEDDLER 

WHO  is  the  man  on  Chestnut  street 
With  colored  toy  balloons'? 
I  see  him  with  his  airy  freight 

On  sunny  afternoons— 
A  peddler  of  such  lovely  goods! 

The  heart  leaps  to  behold 
His  mass  of  bubbles,  red  and  green 
And  blue  and  pink  and  gold. 

For  sure  that  noble  peddler  man 

Hath  antic  merchandise: 
His  toys  that  float  and  swim  in  air 

Attract  my  eager  eyes. 
Perhaps  he  is  a  changeling  prince 

Bewitched  through  magic  moons 
To  tempt  us  solemn  busy  folk 

With  meaningless  balloons. 

Beware,  oh,  valiant  merchantman, 
Tread  cautious  on  the  pave! 

Lest  some  day  come  some  realist, 
Some  haggard  soul  and  grave, 

[82] 


The  Balloon  Peddler 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

A  puritan  efficientist 

Who  deems  thy  toys  a  sin — 
He'll  stalk  thee  madly  from  behind 

And  prick  them  with  a  pin ! 


[8?] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


LINES   FOR  AN   ECCENTRIC'S 
BOOK  PLATE 

TO  use  my  books  all  friends  are  bid : 
My  shelves  are  open  for  'em; 
And  in  each  one,  as  Grolier  did, 
I  write  Et  Amicorum. 

All  lovely  things  in  truth  belong 
To  him  who  best  employs  them; 

The  house,  the  picture  and  the  song 
Are  his  who  most  enjoys  them. 

Perhaps  this  book  holds  precious  lore, 
And  you  may  best  discern  it. 

If  you  appreciate  it  more 

Than  I — why  don't  return  it! 


[86] 


//  you  appreciate  it  more 
Than  I — why  don't  return  it! 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


TO  A  POST-OFFICE  INKWELL 

HOW  many  humble  hearts  have  dipped 
In  you,  and  scrawled  their  manuscript! 
Have  shared  their  secrets,  told  their  cares, 
Their  curious  and  quaint  affairs ! 

Your  pool  of  ink,  your  scratchy  pen, 
Have  moved  the  lives  of  unborn  men, 
And  watched  young  people,  breathing  hard, 
Put  Heaven  on  a  postal  card. 


[89] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE   CRIB 

1  SOUGHT  immortality 
Here  and  there — 
I  sent  my  rockets 

Into  the  air: 
I  gave  my  name 

A  hostage  to  ink; 
I  dined  a  critic 

And  bought  him  drink. 

I  spurned  the  weariness 

Of  the  flesh; 
Denied  fatigue 

And  began  afresh — 
If  men  knew  all, 

How  they  would  laugh! 
I  even  planned 

My  epitaph.  .  .  . 

And  then  one  night 

When  the  dusk  was  thin 

I  heard  the  nursery 
Rites  begin: 

[90] 


And  then  one  night 

When  the  dusk  was  thin 
I  heard  the  nursery 

Rites  begin — • 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

I  heard  the  tender 

Soothings  said 
Over  a  crib,  and 

A  small  sweet  head. 

Then  in  a  flash 

It  came  to  me 
That  there  was  my 

Immortality ! 


[93] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE   POET 

THE  barren  music  of  a  word  or  phrase, 
The  futile  arts  of  syllable  and  stress, 
He  sought.     The  poetry  of  common  days 
He  did  not  guess. 

The  simplest,  sweetest  rhythms  life  affords — 
Unselfish  love,   true  effort  truly  done, 

The  tender  themes  that  underlie  all  words — 
He  knew  not  one. 

The  human  cadence  and  the  subtle  chime 

Of  little  laughters,  home  and  child  and  wife, 

He  knew  not.  Artist  merely  in  his  rhyme, 
Not  in  his  life. 


[94] 


The  human  cadence  and  the  subtle  chime 
Of  little  laughters — 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


TO    A    DISCARDED    MIRROR 


;ii£fi  i3fl  bnai  0}  baau 

nisv  ni  osib  luo^  rloi£38  I  33^  bnA 

oT 


rblori  noi3o9ft3i  i^sb  amoa  Ilba 
f3iiffw  aisblijorfa  10  83^9  ^o  ?n 
.bio  }o  3iow  aria  anwo§  k>  rfa^ft 


i^a  3aum  bnuoi  barfailoq  luoY 
-wona  3jfil  ^fo^n  aril  f3D£^  gnirfguiil  3fiT 

,IIfiw  x^no^  1Lf°Y  no  f 
gnol  uo^  baau  nabH 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


TO    A    CHILD 

greatest  poem  ever  known 
A     Is  one  all  poets  have  outgrown: 
The  poetry,  innate,  untold, 
Of  being  only  four  years  old. 


Still  young  enough  to  be  a  part 
Of  Nature's  great  impulsive  heart, 
Born  comrade  of  bird,  beast  and  tree 
And  unselfconscious  as  the  bee — 


And  yet  with  lovely  reason  skilled 
Each  day  new  paradise  to  build; 
Elate  explorer  of  each  sense, 
Without  dismay,  without  pretence! 


In  your  unstained  transparent  eyes 
There  is  no  conscience,  no  surprise: 
Life's  queer  conundrums  you  accept, 
Your  strange  divinity  still  kept. 

[98] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

Being,  that  now  absorbs  you,  all 
Harmonious,  unit,   integral, 
Will  shred  into  perplexing  bits, — 
Oh,   contradictions  of  the   wits! 

And  Life,  that  sets  all  things  in  rhyme, 
May  make  you  poet,  too,  in  time — 
But  there  were  days,  O  tender  elf, 
When  you  were  Poetry  itself! 


[99] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


TO  A  VERY  YOUNG  GENTLEMAN 

MY  child,  what  painful  vistas  are  before  you ! 
What,  years  of  youthful   ills   and  pangs 

and  bumps — 

Indignities  from  aunts  who  "just  adore"  you, 
And     chicken-pox     and    measles,     croup     and 

mumps ! 
I  don't  wish  to  dismay  you, — it's  not  fair  to, 

Promoted  now  from  bassinet  to  crib, — 
But,  O  my  babe,  what  troubles  flesh  is  heir  to 
Since  God  first  made  so  free  with  Adam's  rib ! 


Laboriously  you  will  proceed  with  teething; 
When  teeth  are  here,  you'll  meet  the  dentist's 

chair; 
They'll    teach    you    ways    of    walking,    eating, 

breathing, 

That  stoves  are  hot,  and  how  to  brush  your  hair; 
And  so,  my  poor,  undaunted  little  stripling, 

By  bruises,  tears,  and  trousers  you  will  grow, 
And,  borrowing  a  leaf  from  Mr.  Kipling, 
I'll  wish  you  luck,  and  moralize  you  so: 
[100] 


What  years  of  youthful  ills  and  pangs  and  bumps- 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

If  you  can  think  up  seven  thousand  methods 

Of  giving  cooks  and  parents  heart  disease; 
Can  rifle  pantry-shelves,  and  then  give  death  odds 

By  water,  fire,  and  falling  out  of  trees; 
If  you  can  fill  your  every  boyish  minute 

With  sixty  seconds'  worth  of  mischief  done, 
Yours  is  the  house  and  everything  that's  in  it, 

And,  which  is  more,  you'll  be  your  father's  son! 


[103] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


TO   AN   OLD-FASHIONED   POET 

(Lizette  Woodworth  Reese) 

MOST  tender  poet,  when  the  gods  confer 
They  save  your  gracile  songs  a  nook  apart, 
And  bless  with  Time's  untainted  lavender 
The  ageless  April  of  your  singing  heart. 

You,  in  an  age  unbridled,  ne'er  declined 

The  appointed  patience  that  the  Muse  decrees, 

Until,  deep  in  the  flower  of  the  mind 

The   hovering   words   alight,   like   bridegroom 
bees. 

By  casual  praise  or  casual  blame  unstirred 

The  placid  gods  grant  gifts  where  they  belong: 

To  you,  who  understand,  the  perfect  word, 
The  recompensed  necessities  of  song. 


[104] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


BURNING  LEAVES  IN  SPRING 

WHEN  withered  leaves  are  lost  in  flame 
Their  eddying  ghosts,  a  thin  blue  haze, 
Blow  through  the  thickets  whence  they  came 
On  amberlucent  autumn  days. 

The  cool  green  woodland  heart  receives 
Their  dim,  dissolving,  phantom  breath; 

In  young  hereditary  leaves 

They  see  their  happy  life-in-death. ' 

My  minutes  perish  as  they  glow — 

Time  burns  my  crazy  bonfire  through; 

But  ghosts  of  blackened  hours  still  blow, 
Eternal  Beauty,  back  to  you! 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


BURNING    LEAVES,    NOVEMBER 

THESE  are  folios  of  April, 
All  the  library  of  spring, 
Missals  gilt  and  rubricated 
With  the   frost's  illumining. 

Ruthless,  we  destroy  these  treasures, 
Set  the  torch  with  hand  profane — 

Gone,   like  Alexandrian   vellums, 
Like  the  books  of  burnt  Louvain! 

Yet  these  classics  are  immortal: 

O  collectors,  have  no  fear, 
For  the  publisher  will  issue 

New  editions  every  year. 


[106] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


A  VALENTINE  GAME 

(For  Two  Players) 

THEY  have  a  game,  thus  played : 
He  says  unto  his  maid 
What  are  those  shining  things 
So  brown,  so  golden  brown? 
And  she,  in  doubt,  replies 

How  now,  what  shining  things 
So  brown? 

But  then,  she  coming  near, 
To  see  more  clear, 
He  looks  again,  and  cries 
(All  startled  with  surprise) 

Sweet  wretch,  they  are  your  eyes, 

So  brown,  so  brown! 

The  climax  and  the  end  consist 
In  kissing,  and  in  being  kissed. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


FOR  A  BIRTHDAY 

AT  TWO  years  old  the  world  he  sees 
Must  seem  expressly  made  to  please ! 
Such  new-found  words  and  games  to  try, 
Such  sudden  mirth,  he  knows  not  why, 
So  many  curiosities! 

As  life  about  him,  by  degrees 
Discloses  all  its  pageantries 
He  watches  with  approval  shy 
At  two  years  old. 

With  wonders  tired  he  takes  his  ease 
At  dusk,  upon  his  mother's  knees: 
A  little  laugh,  a  little  cry, 
Put  toys  to  bed,  then  "seepy-bye" — 
The  world  is  made  of  such  as  these 
At  two  years  old. 


[108] 


A  Birthday 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


KEATS 

(1821-1921) 

WHEN  sometimes,  on  a  moony  night,  I've 
passed 

A  street-lamp,  seen  my  doubled  shadow  flee, 
I've  noticed  how  much  darker,  clearer  cast, 
The  full  moon  poured  her  silhouette  of  me. 

Just  so  of  spirits.     Beauty's  silver  light 

Limns  with  a  ray  more  pure,  and  tenderer  too: 

Men's  clumsy  gestures,  to  unearthly  sight, 

Surpass  the  shapes  they  show  by  human  view. 

On  this  brave  world,  where  few  such  meteors  fell, 
Her  youngest  son,  to  save  us,  Beauty  flung. 

He  suffered  and  descended  into  hell— 

And  comforts  yet  the  ardent  and  the  young. 

Drunken  of  moonlight,  dazed  by  draughts  of  sky, 
Dizzy  with  stars,  his  mortal  fever  ran: 

His  utterance  a  moon-enchanted  cry 

Not  free  from  folly — for  he  too  was  man. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


And  now  and  here,  a  hundred  years  away, 
Where  topless  towers  shadow  golden  streets, 

The  young  men  sit,  nooked  in  a  cheap  cafe, 
Perfectly  happy  .  .  .  talking  about  Keats. 


[112] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


TO  H.  F.  M. 

A  SONNET  IN   SUNLIGHT 

THIS  is  a  day  for  sonnets:  Oh  how  clear 
Our  splendid  cliffs  and  summits  lift  the 

gaze— 
If  all  the  perfect  moments  of  the  year 

Were  poured  and  gathered  in  one  sudden  blaze, 

Then,  then  perhaps,  in  some  endowered  phrase 

My  flat  strewn  words  would  rise  and  come  more 

near 

To  tell  of  you.     Your  beauty  and  your  praise 
Would  fall  like  sunlight  on  this  paper  here. 

Then  I  would  build  a  sonnet  that  would  stand 
Proud  and  perennial  on  this  pale  bright  sky; 

So  tall,  so  steep,  that  it  might  stay  the  hand 
Of  Time,  the  dusty  wrecker.     He  would  sigh 

To  tear  my  strong  words  down.     And  he  would 
say: 

"That  song  he  built  for  her,  one  summer  day." 


[us] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


QUICKENING 

SUCH  little,  puny  things  are  words  in  rhyme: 
Poor   feeble   loops   and   strokes   as   frail    as 

hairs; 

You  see  them  printed  here,  and  mark  their  chime, 
And  turn  to  your  more  durable  affairs. 
Yet  on  such  petty  tools  the  poet  dares 
To  run  his  race  with  mortar,  bricks  and  lime, 

And  draws  his  frail  stick  to  the  point,  and  stares 
To  aim  his  arrow  at  the  heart  of  Time. 

Intangible,   yet  pressing,   hemming  in, 
This  measured  emptiness  engulfs  us  all, 

And  yet  he  points  his  paper  javelin 

And  sees  it  eddy,  waver,  turn,  and  fall, 

And  feels,  between  delight  and  trouble  torn, 

The  stirring  of  a  sonnet  still  unborn. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


AT  A  WINDOW  SILL 

r  t  JO  WRITE  a  sonnet  needs  a  quiet  mind.  .  .  . 

J.       I  paused  and  pondered,   tried  again.     To 

-write.   .   .   . 

Raising  the  sash,  I  breathed  the  winter  night : 
Papers  and  small  hot  room  were  left  behind. 
Against  the  gusty  purple,  ribbed  and  spined 
With  golden  slots  and  vertebrse  of  light 
Men's  cages  loomed.    Down  sliding  from  a  height 
An  elevator  winked  as  it  declined. 

Coward !    There  is  no  quiet  in  the  brain — 
If  pity  burns  it  not,  then  beauty  will: 
Tinder  it  is  for  every  blowing  spark. 
Uncertain  whether  this  is  bliss  or  pain 
The  unresting  mind  will  gaze  across  the  sill 
From  high  apartment  windows,  in  the  dark. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

THE   RIVER   OF   LIGHT 

I.     Broadway,  io3rd  to  96th. 

LIGHTS  foam  and  bubble  down  the  gentle 
grade : 

Bright  shine  chop  sueys  and  rotisseries; 
In  pink  translucence  glowingly  displayed 
See  camisole  and  stocking  and  chemise. 
Delicatessen  windows  full  of  cheese — 
Above,  the  chimes  of  church-bells  toll  and  fade — 
And  then,  from  off  some  distant  Palisade 
That  gluey  savor  on  the  Jersey  breeze! 

The  burning  bulbs,  in  green  and  white  and  red, 
Spell  out  a  Change  of  Program  Sun.,  Wed.,  FrL, 
A  clicking  taxi  spins  with  ruby  spark. 
There  is  a  sense  of  poising  near  the  head 
Of  some  great  flume  of  brightness,  flowing  by 
To  pour  in  gathering  torrent  through  the  dark. 


[116] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

THE  RIVER  OF  LIGHT 

II.    Below  g6th 

THE  current  quickens,  and  in  golden  flow 
Hurries  its  flotsam  downward  through  the 

night — 

Here  are  the  rapids  where  the  undertow 
Whirls  endless  motors  in  a  gleaming  flight. 
From  blazing  tributaries,  left  and  right, 
Influent  streams  of  blue  and  amber  grow. 
Columbus  Circle  eddies :  all  below 
Is  pouring  flame,  a  gorge  of  broken  light. 

See  how  the  burning  river  boils  in  spate, 
Channeled  by  cliffs  of  insane  jewelry, 
Painting  a  rosy  roof  on  cloudy  air — 
And  just  about  ten  minutes  after  eight, 
Tossing  a  surf  of  color  to  the  sky 
It  bursts  in  cataracts  upon  Times  Square! 


[117] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


OF  HER  GLORIOUS  MADNESS 

THE  city's  mad:  through  her  prodigious  veins 
What    errant,    strange,    eccentric    humors 

thrill : 

Day,  when  her  cataracts  of  sunlight  spill — 
Night,  golden-panelled  with  her  window  panes; 
The  toss  of  wind-blown  skirts;  and  who  can  drill 
Forever  his  fierce  heart  with  checking  reins? 
Cruel  and  mad,  my  statisticians  say — 
Ah,  but  she  raves  in  such  a  gallant  way! 

Brave  madness,  built  for  beauty  and  the  sun 

In  such  a  town  who  can  be  sane?    Not  I. 
Of  clashing  colors  all  her  moods  are  spun — 
A  scarlet  anger  and  a  golden  cry. 
This  frantic  town  where  madcap  mischiefs  run 
They  ask  to  take  the  veil,  and  be  a  nun ! 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


IN  AN  AUCTION  ROOM 

(Letter  of  John  Keats  to  Fanny  Brawne,  Ander 
son  Galleries •,  March  15,  1920.) 

To  Dr.  A.  S.  W.  Rosenbach. 

T  TOW  about  this  lot?  said  the  auctioneer; 
JL  J.    One  hundred,  may  I  say,  just  for  a  start? 
Between  the  plum-red  curtains,  drawn  apart, 
A  written  sheet  was  held.   .  .   .  And  strange  to 

hear 

(Dealer,   would   I   were   steadfast   as   thou   art) 
The  cold  quick  bids.  {Against  you  in  the  rear!) 
The  crimson  salon,  in  a  glow  more  clear 
Burned  bloodlike  purple  as  the  poet's  heart. 

Song  that  outgrew  the  singer !     Bitter  Love 
That  broke  the  proud  hot  heart  it  held  in  thrall; 
Poor    script,    where    still    those    tragic    passions 

move— 

Eight  hundred  bid:  fair  warning:  the  last  call: 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star.  .  .  . 
Sold  for  eight  hundred  dollars — Doctor  R.I 


CHIMNEY SMOKE 


EPITAPH  FOR  A  POET  WHO  WROTE  NO 
POETRY 

"It  is  said  that  a  poet  has  died  young  in  the  breast 
of  the  most  stolid." — Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

WHAT  was  the  service  of  this  poet?    He 
Who  blinked  the  blinding  dazzle-rays  that 
run 

Where  life  profiles  its  edges  to  the  sun, 
And  still  suspected  much  he  could  not  see. 
Clay-stopped,  yet  in  his  taciturnity 
There  lay  the  vein  of  glory,  known  to  none; 
And  moods  of  secret  smiling,  only  won 
When  peace  and  passion,  time  and  sense,  agree. 

Fighting  the  world  he  loved  for  chance  to  brood, 
Ignorant  when  to  embrace,  when  to  avoid 
His  loves  that  held  him  in  their  vital  clutch — 
This  was  his  service,  his  beatitude; 
This  was  the  inward  trouble  he  enjoyed 
Who  knew  so  little,  and  who  felt  so  much. 


[120] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


SONNET  BY  A  GEOMETER 

THE    CIRCLE 

FEW  things  are  perfect:  we  bear  Eden's  scar; 
Yet  faulty  man  was  godlike  in  design 
That  day  when  first,   with  stick  and  length  of 

twine, 

He  drew  me  on  the  sand.    Then  what  could  mar 
His  joy  in  that  obedient  mystic  line; 
And  then,  computing  with  a  zeal  divine, 
He  called  TT  3-point-i4i59 
And  knew  my  lovely  circuit  2  TT  r! 

A  circle  is  a  happy  thing  to  be— 
Think  how  the  joyful  perpendicular 
Erected  at  the  kiss  of  tangency 
Must  meet  my  central  point,  my  avatar! 
They  talk  of  14  points:  yet  only  3 
Determine  every  circle :  Q.  E.  D. 


[121] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


TO  A  VAUDEVILLE  TERRIER 
SEEN  ON  A  LEASH,  IN  THE  PARK 

THREE  times  a  day — at  two,  at  seven,  at 
nine— 

O  terrier,  you  play  your  little  part: 
Absurd  in  coat  and  skirt  you  push  a  cart, 
With  inner  anguish  walk  a  tight-rope  line. 
Up  there,  before  the  hot  and  dazzling  shine 
You  must  be  rigid  servant  of  your  art, 
Nor  watch  those  fluffy  cats — your  doggish  heart 
Might  leap  and  then  betray  you  with  a  whine ! 

But  sometimes,  when  you've  faithfully  rehearsed, 
Your  trainer  takes  you  walking  in  the  park, 
Straining  to  sniff  the  grass,  to  chase  a  frog. 
The   leash   is   slipped,    and   then   your  joy   will 

burst — 

Adorable  it  is  to  run  and  bark, 
To  be — alas,  how  seldom — just  a  dog! 


[122] 


You  must  be  rigid  servant  of  your  art! 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


TO  AN  OLD  FRIEND 

(For  Lloyd  Williams.) 

1LIKE  to  dream  of  some  established  spot 
Where  you  and  I,   old   friend,   an  evening 

through 

Under  tobacco's  fog,  streaked  gray  and  blue, 
Might  reconsider  laughters  unforgot. 
Beside  a  hearth-glow,  golden-clear  and  hot, 
I'd  hear  you  tell  the  oddities  men  do. 
The  clock  would  tick,  and  we  would  sit,  we  two — 
Life  holds  such  meetings  for  us,  does  it  not4? 

Happy  are  men  when  they  have  learned  to  prize 
The  sure  unvarnished  virtue  of  their  friends, 
The  unchanged  kindness  of  a  well-known  face : 
On  old  fidelities  our  world  depends, 
And  runs  a  simple  course  in  honest  wise, 
Not  a  mere  taxicab  shot  wild  through  space ! 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


TO  A  BURLESQUE  SOUBRETTE 

1"  TPSTAGE  the  great  high-shafted  beefy  choir 
\^J    Squawked  in  2000  watts  of  orange  glare — 

You  came,  and  impudent  and  deuce-may-care 
Danced  where  the  gutter  flamed  with  footlight 
nre. 

Flung  from  the  roof,  spots  red  and  yellow  burned 
And  followed  you.     The  blatant  brassy  clang 
Of   instruments   drowned   out   the   words  you 
sang, 

But  goldenly  you  capered,  twirled  and  turned. 

Boyish    and    slender,    child-limbed,     quick    and 

proud, 

A  sprite  of  irresistible  disdain, 
Fair  as  a  jonquil  in  an  April  rain, 
You   seemed    too    sweet    an    imp    for    that    dull 
crowd.  .  .  . 

And  then,  behind  the  scenes,  I  heard  you  say, 

" 0  Gawd,  I  got  a  hellish  cold  to-day!" 


[126] 


You  came,  and  impudent  and  deuce-may-care 
Danced  where  the  gutter  flamed  with  footlight  fire. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THOUGHTS  WHILE  PACKING  A  TRUNK 

THE  sonnet  is  a  trunk,  and  you  must  pack 
With  care,  to  ship  frail  baggage  far  away; 
The  octet  is  the  trunk;  sestet,  the  tray; 
Tight,  but  not  overloaded,  is  the  knack. 
First,  at  the  bottom,  heavy  thoughts  you  stack, 
And  in  the  chinks  your  adjectives  you  lay— 
Your  phrases,  folded  neatly  as  you  may, 
Stowing  a  syllable  in  every  crack. 

Then,  in  the  tray,  your  daintier  stuff  is  hid : 
The  tender  quatrain  where  your  moral  sings — 

Be  careful,  though,  lest  as  you  close  the  lid 

You  crush  and  crumple  all  these  fragile  things. 

Your  couplet  snaps  the  hasps  and  turns  the  key — 

Ship  to  The  Editor,  marked  C.  O.  D. 


[129] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


STREETS 

I   HAVE  seen   streets   where   strange   enchant 
ment  broods: 

Old  ruddy  houses  where  the  morning  shone 
In  seemly  quiet  on  their  tranquil  moods, 
Across  the  sills  white  curtains  outward  blown. 
Their  marble  steps  were  scoured  as  white  as  bone 
Where  scrubbing  housemaids  toiled  on  wounded 

knee- 

And  yet,  among  all  streets  that  I  have  known 
These  placid  byways  give  least  peace  to  me. 

In  such  a  house,  where  green  light  shining  through 

(From  some  back  garden)  framed  her  silhouette 

I  saw  a  girl,  heard  music  blithely  sung. 

She  stood  there  laughing,  in  a  dress  of  blue, 

And  as  I  went  on,  slowly,  there  I  met 

An  old,  old  woman,  who  had  once  been  young. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


TO  THE  ONLY  BEGETTER 


I   HAVE  no  hope  to  make  you  live  in  rhyme 
Or  with  your  beauty  to  enrich  the  years — 
Enough  for  me  this  now,  this  present  time; 
The  greater  claim  for  greater  sonneteers. 
But  O  how  covetous  I  am  of  NOW- 
Dear  human  minutes,  marred  by  human  pains — 
I  want  to  know  your  lips,  your  cheek,  your  brow, 
And  all  the  miracles  your  heart  contains, 
I  wish  to  study  all  your  changing  face, 
Your  eyes,  divinely  hurt  with  tenderness; 
I  hope  to  win  your  dear  unstinted  grace 
For   these  blunt   rhymes   and   what  they   would 

express. 

Then  may  you  say,  when  others  better  prove  :— 
"Theirs  for  their  style  I'll  read^  his  for  his  love." 


[130 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


TO  THE  ONLY  BEGETTER 

ii 

WHEN  all  my  trivial  rhymes  are  blotted  out, 
Vanished  our  days,  so  precious  and  so  few, 
If  some  should  wonder  what  we  were  about 
And  what  the  little  happenings  we  knew: 
I  wish  that  they  might  know  how,  night  by  night, 
My  pencil,  heavy  in  the  sleepy  hours, 
Sought  vainly  for  some  gracious  way  to  write 
How  much  this  love  is  ours,  and  only. ours. 
How  many  evenings,  as  you  drowsed  to  sleep, 
I  read  to  you  by  tawny  candle-glow, 
And  watched  you  down  the  valley  dim  and  deep 
Where  poppies  and  the  April  flowers  grow. 
Then  knelt  beside  your  pillow  with  a  prayer, 
And  loved  the  breath  of  pansies  in  your  hair. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


PEDOMETER 

MY   thoughts   beat  out   in  sonnets   while  I 
walk, 

And  every  evening  on  the  homeward  street 
I  find  the  rhythm  of  my  marching  feet 
Throbs  into  verses  (though  the  rhyme  may  balk). 
I  think  the  sonneteers  were  walking  men : 
The  form  is  dour  and  rigid,  like  a  clamp, 
But  with  the  swing  of  legs  the  tramp,   tramp, 

tramp 

Of  syllables  begins  to  thud,  and  then — 
Lo!  while  you  seek  a  rhyme  for  hook  or  crook 
Vanished  your  shabby  coat,  and  you  are  kith 
To  all  great  walk-and-singers — Meredith, 
And  Shakespeare,  Wordsworth,  Keats,  and  Ru 
pert  Brooke! 

Free  verse  is  poor  for  walking,  but  a  sonnet — 
O  marvellous  to  stride  and  brood  upon  it! 


[133] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


HOSTAGES 

"He  that  hath  wife  and  children  hath  given 
hostages  to  fortune." — BACON. 

AYE,  Fortune,  thou  hast  hostage  of  my  best! 
I,  that  was  once  so  heedless  of  thy  frown, 
Have  armed  thee  cap-a-pie  to  strike  me  down, 
Have  given  thee  blades  to  hold  against  my  breast. 
My  virtue,  that  was  once  all  self-possessed, 
Is  parceled  out  in  little  hands,  and  brown 
Bright  eyes,  and  in  a  sleeping  baby's  gown: 
To  threaten  these  will  put  me  to  the  test. 

Sure,  since  there  are  these  pitiful  poor  chinks 
Upon  the  makeshift  armor  of  my  heart, 
For  thee  no  honor  lies  in  such  a  fight! 
And  thou  wouldst  shame  to  vanquish  one,  me- 

thinks, 

Who  came  awake  with  such  a  painful  start 
To  hear  the  coughing  of  a  child  at  night. 


[134] 


Hostages. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


ARS  DURA 

HOW  many  evenings,  walking  soberly 
Along  our  street  all  dappled  with  rich  sun, 
I  please  myself  with  words,  and  happily 
Time  rhymes  to  footfalls,  planning  how  they  run; 
And  yet,  when  midnight  comes,  and  paper  lies 
Clean,  white,  receptive,  all  that  one  can  ask, 
Alas  for  drowsy  spirit,  weary  eyes 
And  traitor  hand  that  fails  the  well  loved  task! 

Who  ever  learned  the  sonnet's  bitter  craft 

But  he  had  put  away  his  sleep,  his  ease, 

The    wine    he    loved,    the    men    with    whom    he 

laughed  -* 

To  brood  upon  such  thankless  tricks  as  these? 
And  yet,  such  joy  does  in  that  craft  abide 
He  greets  the  paper  as  the  groom  the  bride ! 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


O.  HENRY— APOTHECARY 

("O.   Henry"   once   worked   in   a   drug-store   in 
Greensboro,  N.  C.) 

\\  THERE  once  he  measured  camphor,  glyc- 
V  V  erine, 

Quinine  and  potash,  peppermint  in  bars, 
And  all  the  oils  and  essences  so  keen 
That  druggists  keep  in  rows  of  stoppered  jars- — 
Now,  blender  of  strange  drugs  more  volatile, 
The  master  pharmacist  of  joy  and  pain 
Dispenses  sadness  tinctured  with  a  smile 
And  laughter  that  dissolves  in  tears  again. 

O  brave  apothecary !     You  who  knew 

What  dark  and  acid  doses  life  prefers 

And  yet  with  friendly  face  resolved  to  brew 

These  sparkling  potions  for  your  customers — 

In  each  prescription  your  Physician  writ 

You  poured  your  rich  compassion  and  your  wit! 


[138] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


FOR  THE  CENTENARY  OF  KEATS'S 
SONNET  (1816) 

"On  First  Looking  Into  Chapman's  Homer." 

1KNEW  a  scientist,  an  engineer, 
Student  of  tensile  strengths  and  calculus, 
A  man  who  loved  a  cantilever  truss 
And  always  wore  a  pencil  on  his  ear. 
My  friend  believed  that  poets  all  were  queer, 
And  literary  folk  ridiculous; 

But  one  night,  when  it  chanced  that  three  of  us 
Were  reading  Keats  aloud,  he  stopped  to  hear. 

Lo,  a  new  planet  swam  into  his  ken ! 

His  eager  mind  reached  for  it  and  took  hold. 

Ten  years  are  by:  I  see  him  now  and  then, 

And  at  alumni  dinners,  if  cajoled, 

He  mumbles  gravely,  to  the  cheering  men: — 

Much  have  I  travelled  in  the  realms  of  gold. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


TWO  O'CLOCK 

NIGHT  after  night  goes  by:  and  clocks  still 
chime 

And  stars  are  changing  patterns  in  the  dark, 
And  watches  tick,  and  over-puissant  Time 

Benumbs  the  eager  brain.    The  dogs  that  bark, 
The  trains  that  roar  and  rattle  in  the  night, 

The  very  cats  that  prowl,  all  quiet  find 
And  leave  the  darkness  empty,  silent  quite : 
Sleep  comes  to  chloroform  the  fretting  mind. 

So  all  things  end:  and  what  is  left  at  last? 

Some  scribbled  sonnets  tossed  upon  the  floor, 
A  memory  of  easy  days  gone  past, 

A  run-down  watch,   a  pipe,  some  clothes  we 

wore — 
And  in  the  darkened  room  I  lean  to  know 

How  warm  her  dreamless  breath  does  pause 
and  flow. 


[140] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE  COMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER 

AH  very  sweet !    If  news  should  come  to  you 
Some  afternoon,  while  waiting  for  our  eve, 
That  the  great  Manager  had  made  me  leave 
To  travel  on  some  territory  new; 
And  that,  whatever  homeward  winds  there  blew, 
I  could  not  touch  your  hand  again,  nor  heave 
The  logs  upon  our  hearth  and  bid  you  weave 
Some  wistful  tale  before  the  flames  that  grew.  .  .  . 

Then,  when  the  sudden  tears  had  ceased  to  blind 
Your  pansied  eyes,  I  wonder  if  you  could 
Remember  rightly,  and  forget  aright? 
Remember  just  your  lad,  uncouthly  good, 
Forgetting  when  he  failed  in  spleen  or  spite? 
Could  you  remember  him  as  always  kind? 


run 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE  WEDDED  LOVER 

I    READ  in  our  old  journals  of  the  days 
When  our  first  love  was  April-sweet  and  new, 
How  fair  it  blossomed  and  deep-rooted  grew 
Despite  the  adverse  time;  and  our  amaze 
At  moon  and  stars  and  beauty  beyond  praise 
That  burgeoned  all  about  us :  gold  and  blue 
The  heaven  arched  us  in,  and  all  we  knew 
Was  gentleness.    We  walked  on  happy  ways. 

They  said  by  now  the  path  would  be  more  steep, 
The  sunsets  paler  and  less  mild  the  air; 
Rightly  we  heeded  not:  it  was  not  true. 
We  will  not  tell  the  secret — let  it  keep. 
I  know  not  how  I  thought  those  days  so  fair 
These  being  so  much  fairer,  spent  with  you. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


TO  YOU,  REMEMBERING  THE  PAST 

WHEN  we  were  parted,  sweet,  and  darkness 
came, 

I  used  to  strike  a  match,  and  hold  the  flame 
Before  your  picture  and  would  breathless  mark 
The  answering  glimmer  of  the  tiny  spark 
That  brought  to  life  the  magic  of  your  eyes, 
Their  wistful  tenderness,  their  glad  surprise. 

Holding  that  mimic  torch  before  your  shrine 
I  used  to  light  your  eyes  and  make  them  mine; 
Watch  them  like  stars  set  in  a  lonely  sky, 
Whisper  my  heart  out,  yearning  for  reply; 
Summon  your  lips  from  far  across  the  sea 
Bidding  them  live  a  twilight  hour  with  me. 

Then,  when  the  match  was  shrivelled  into  gloom, 
Lo — you  were  with  me  in  the  darkened  room. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

CHARLES  AND  MARY 

(December  27,   1834.) 

Lamb  died  just  before  I  left  town,  and  Mr.  Ryle  of 
the  E.  India  House,  one  of  his  extors.,  notified  it  to  me. 
.  .  .  He  said  Miss  L.  was  resigned  and  composed  at  the 
event,  but  it  was  from  her  malady,  then  in  mild  type,  so 
that  when  she  saw  her  brother  dead,  she  observed  on  his 
beauty  when  asleep  and  apprehended  nothing  further. 
— Letter  of  John  Rickman,  24  January,  1835. 

I    HEAR  their  voices  still :  the  stammering  one 
Struggling  with  some  absurdity  of  jest; 
Her  quiet  words  that  puzzle  and  protest 
Against  the  latest  outrage  of  his  fun. 
So  wise,  so  simple — has  she  never  guessed 
That  through  his  laughter,  love  and  terror  run? 
For  when  her  trouble  came,  and  darkness  pressed, 
He  smiled,  and  fought  her  madness  with  a  pun. 

Through  all  those  years  it  was  his  task  to  keep 
Her  gentle  heart  serenely  mystified. 
If  Fate's  an  artist,  this  should  be  his  pride — 
When,  in  that  Christmas  season,  he  lay  dead, 
She  innocently  looked.     "I  always  said 
That  Charles  is  really  handsome  when  asleep." 

[144] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


TO   A   GRANDMOTHER 

AT  six  o'clock  in  the  evening, 
The  time  for  lullabies, 
My  son  lay  on  my  mother's  lap 

With  sleepy,  sleepy  eyes! 

(0  drowsy  little  manny  boy. 

With  sleepy,  sleepy  eyes!) 

I  heard  her  sing,  and  rock  him, 

And  the  creak  of  the  swaying  chair, 

And  the  old  dear  cadence  of  the  words 
Came  softly  down  the  stair. 

And  all  the  years  had  vanished, 
All  folly,  greed,   and  stain — 

The  old,  old  song,  the  creaking  chair, 
The  dearest  arms  again! 

(0  lucky  little  manny  boy, 
To  feel  those  arms  again!} 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


DIARISTS 

THEY  catalogue  their  minutes:  Now,  now, 
now, 

Is  Actual,  amid  the  fugitive; 
Take  ink  and  pen  (they  say)  for  that  is  how 
We  snare  this  flying  life,  and  make  it  live. 
So  to  their  little  pictures,  and  they  sieve 

Their  happinesses :  fields  turned  by  the  plough, 
The  afterglow  that  summer  sunsets  give, 
The  razor  concave  of  a  great  ship's  bow. 

O  gallant  instinct,  folly  for  men's  mirth! 

Type  cannot  burn  and  sparkle  on  the  page. 
No  glittering  ink  can  make  this  written  word 

Shine  clear  enough  to  speak  the  noble  rage 
And  instancy  of  life.     All  sonnets  blurred 

The   sudden  mood   of   truth   that  gave   them 
birth. 


[146] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


s 


THE  LAST  SONNET 
UPPOSE  one  knew  that  never  more  might 


one 

Put  pen  to  sonnet,  well  loved  task;  that  now 
These  fourteen  lines  were  all  he  could  allow 
To  say  his  message,  be  forever  done ; 
How  he  would  scan  the  word,  the  line,  the  rhyme, 
Intent  to  sum  in  dearly  chosen  phrase 
The  windy  trees,  the  beauty  of  his  days, 
Life's  pride  and  pathos  in  one  verse  sublime. 
How  bitter  then  would  be  regret  and  pang 
For  former  rhymes  he  dallied  to  refine, 
For  every  verse  that  was  not  crystalline.  .  .  . 
And  if  belike  this  last  one  feebly  rang, 
Honor  and  pride  would  cast  it  to  the  floor 
Facing  the  judge  with  what  was  done  before. 


[1471 


c 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE  SAVAGE 


IVILIZATION  causes  me 
Alternate  fits:  disgust  and  glee. 


Buried  in  piles  of  glass  and  stone 
My  private  spirit  moves  alone, 

Where  every  day  from  eight  to  six 
I  keep  alive  by  hasty  tricks. 

But  I  am  simple  in  my  soul; 
My  mind  is  sullen  to  control. 

At  dusk  I  smell  the  scent  of  earth, 
And  I  am  dumb — too  glad  for  mirth. 

I  know  the  savors  night  can  give, 
And  then,  and  then,  I  live,  I  live ! 

No  man  is  wholly  pure  and  free, 
For  that  is  not  his  destiny, 

But  though  I  bend,  I  will  not  break: 
And  still  be  savage,  for  Truth's  sake. 

God  damns  the  easily  convinced 
(Like  Pilate,  when  his  hands  he  rinsed) 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


ST.  PAUL'S  AND  WOOLWORTH 

I    STOOD  on  the  pavement 
Where  I  could  admire 
Behind  the  brown  chapel 
The  cream  and  gold  spire. 

Above,   gilded  Lightning 
Swam  high  on  his  ball — 

I  saw  the  noon  shadow 
The  church  of  St.  Paul. 

And  was  there  a  meaning'? 

(My  fancy  would  run), 
Saint  Paul  in  the  shadow, 

Saint  Frank  in  the  sun ! 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


ADVICE  TO  A  CITY 

OCITY,  cage  your  poets!     Hem  them  in 
And  roof  them  over  from  the  April  sky — 
Clatter  them  round  with  babble,  ceaseless  din, 
And  drown  their  voices  with  your  thunder  cry. 

Forbid  their  free  feet  on  the  windy  hills, 
And  harness  them  to  daily  ruts  of  stone — 

(In  florists'  windows  lock  the  daffodils) 
And  never,  never  let  them  be  alone! 

For  they  are  curst,  said  poets,  curst  and  lewd, 
And  freedom  gives  their  tongues  uncanny  wit, 

And  granted  silence,  thought  and  solitude 
They  (absit  omen!}  might  make  Song  of  it. 

So  cage  them  in,  and  stand  about  them  thick, 
And  keep  them  busy  with  their  daily  bread; 

And  should  their  eyes  seem  strange,  ah,  then  be 

quick 
To  interrupt  them  ere  the  word  be  said.  .  .  . 

For,  if  their  hearts  burn  with  sufficient  rage, 
With  wasted  sunsets  and  frustrated  youth, 

Some  day  they'll  cry,  on  some  disturbing  page, 
The  savage,  sweet,  unpalatable  truth! 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE  TELEPHONE  DIRECTORY 

NO  MALORY  of  old  romance, 
No  Crusoe  tale,  it  seems  to  me, 
Can  equal  in  rich  circumstance 
This  telephone  directory. 


No  ballad  of  fair  ladies'  eyes, 

No  legend  of  proud  knights  and  dames, 
Can  fill  me  with  such  bright  surmise 

As  this  great  book  of  numbered  names ! 


How  many  hearts  and  lives  unknown, 
Rare  damsels  pining  for  a  squire, 

Are  waiting  for  the  telephone 

To  ring,  and  call  them  to  the  wire. 


Some  wait  to  hear  a  loved  voice  say 
The  news  they  will  rejoice  to  know 

At  Rome  2637  J 
Or  Marathon  1450! 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

And  some,  perhaps,  are  stung  with  fear 
And  answer  with  reluctant  tread: 

The  message  they  expect  to  hear 
Means  life  or  death  or  daily  bread. 

A  million  hearts  here  wait  our  call, 
All  naked  to  our  distant  speech — 

I  wish  that  I  could  ring  them  all 

And  have  some  welcome  news  for  each ! 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


GREEN  ESCAPE 

AT  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
On  a  hot  September  day, 
I  began  to  dream  of  a  highland  stream 

And  a  frostbit  russet  tree; 
Of  the  swashing  dip  of  a  clipper  ship 

(White  canvas  wet  with  spray) 
And  the  swirling  green  and  milk-foam  clean 
Along  her  canted  lee. 

I  heard  the  quick  staccato  click 

Of  the  typist's  pounding  keys, 
And  I  had  to  brood  of  a  wind  more  rude 

Than  that  by  a  motor  fanned — 
And  I  lay  inert  in  a  flannel  shirt 

To  watch  the  rhyming  seas 
Deploy  and  fall  in  a  silver  sprawl 

On  a  beach  of  sun-blanched  sand. 


There  is  no  desk  shall  tame  my  lust 
For  hills  and  windy  skies; 

My  secret  hope  of  the  sea's  blue  slope 
No  clerkly  task  shall  dull; 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

And  though  I  print  no  echoed  hint 

Of  adventures  I  devise, 
My  eyes  still  pine  for  the  comely  line 

Of  an  outbound  vessel's  hull. 

When  I  elope  with  an  autumn  day 

And  make  my  green  escape, 
Fll  leave  my  pen  to  tamer  men 

Who  have  more  docile  souls; 
For  forest  aisles  and  office  files 

Have  a  very  different  shape, 
And  it's  hard  to  woo  the  ocean  blue 

In  a  row  of  pigeon  holes ! 


My  eyes  still  pine  for  the  comely  line 
Of  an  outbound  vessel's  hull. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


VESPER  SONG  FOR  COMMUTERS 

(Instead  of  "Marathon"  the  commuter  may  sub 
stitute  the  name  of  his  favorite  suburb} 

THE  stars  are  kind  to  Marathon, 
How  low,  how  close,  they  lean ! 
They  jostle  one  another 
And  do  their  best  to  please — 
Indeed,  they  are  so  neighborly 
That  in  the  twilight  green 
One  reaches  out  to  pick  them 
Behind  the  poplar  trees. 

The  stars  are  kind  to  Marathon, 

And  one  particular 

Bright  planet  (which  is  Vesper) 

Most  lucid  and  serene, 

Is  waiting  by  the  railway  bridge, 

The  Good  Commuter's  Star, 

The  Star  of  Wise  Men  coming  home 

On  time,  at  6:15! 


[157] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE  ICE  WAGON 

I'D  like  to  split  the  sky  that  roofs  us  down, 
Break  through  the  crystal  lid  of  upper  air, 
And  tap  the  cool  still  reservoirs  of  heaven. 
I'd  empty  all  those  unseen  lakes  of  freshness 
Down    some    vast    funnel,    through    our    stifled 
streets. 

I'd  like  to  pump  away  the  grit,  the  dust, 
Raw  dazzle  of  the  sun  on  garbage  piles, 
The  droning  troops  of  flies,  sharp  bitter  smells, 
And  gush  that  bright  sweet  flood  of  unused  air 
Down  every  alley  where  the  children  gasp. 

And  then  I'd  take  a  fleet  of  ice  wagons — 

Big  yellow  creaking  carts,  drawn  by  wet  horses,—- 

And  drive   them   rumbling   through   the  blazing 

slums. 

In  every  wagon  would  be  blocks  of  coldness, 
Pale,  gleaming  cubes  of  ice,  all  green  and  silver, 
With  inner  veins  and  patterns,  white  and  frosty; 
Great  lumps  of  chill  would  drip  and  steam  and 

shimmer, 
And  spark  like  rainbows  in  their  little  fractures. 

[158] 


CHIMNEYS  MOKE 

And   where   my    wagons   stood    there    would   be 

puddles, 

A  wetness  and  a  sparkle  and  a  coolness. 
My  friends  and  I  would  chop  and  splinter  open 
The  blocks  of  ice.     Bare  feet  would  soon  come 

pattering, 

And  some  would  wrap  it  up  in  Sunday  papers, 
And  some  would  stagger  home  with  it  in  baskets, 
And  some  would  be  too  gay  for  aught  but  sucking, 
Licking,  crunching  those  fast  melting  pebbles, 
Gulping  as  they  slipped  down  unexpected- 
Laughing  to  perceive  that  secret  numbness 
Amid  their  small  hot  persons ! 

At  every  stop  would  be  at  least  one  urchin 
Would  take  a  piece  to  cool  the  sweating  horses 
And  hold  it  up  against  their  silky  noses — 
And    they    would    start,    and    then    decide    they 
liked  it. 


Down  all  the  sun-cursed  byways  of  the  town 

Our  wagons  would  be  trailed  by  grimy  tots, 

Their  ragged  shirts  half  off  them  with  excitement ! 

Dabbling  toes  and  fingers  in  our  leakage, 

A  lucky  few  up  sitting  with  the  driver, 

All  clambering  and  stretching  grey-pink  palms. 

[159] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

And  by  the  time  the  wagons  were  all  empty 
Our   arms    and   shoulders   would   be    lame    with 

chopping, 

Our  backs  and  thighs  pain-shot,  our  fingers  frozen. 
But  how  we  would  recall  those  eager  faces, 
Red    thirsty    tongues    with    ice-chips    sliding   on 

them, 
The    pinched    white    cheeks,    and    their    pathetic 

gladness. 
Then  we  would  know  that  arms  were  made  for 

aching — 

I  wish  to  God  that  I  could  go  to-morrow ! 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


AT  A  MOVIE  THEATRE 

HOW  well  he  spoke  who  coined  the  phrase 
The  picture  palace!    Aye,  in  sooth 
A  palace,  where  men's  weary  days 

Are  crowned  with  kingliness  of  youth. 


Strange  palace!     Crowded,  airless,  dim, 
Where  toes  are  trod  and  strained  eyes  smart, 

We  watch  a  wand  of  brightness  limn 
The  old  heroics  of  the  heart. 


Romance  again  hath  us  in  thrall 
And  Love  is  sweet  and  always  true, 

And  in  the  darkness  of  the  hall 

Hands  clasp — as  they  were  meant  to  do. 


Remote  from  peevish  joys  and  ills 

Our  souls,  pro  tern,  are  purged  and  free: 

We  see  the  sun  on  western  hills, 
The  crumbling  tumult  of  the  sea. 

[161] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

We  are  the  blond  that  maidens  crave, 
Well  balanced  at  a  dozen  banks; 

By  sleight  of  hand  we  haste  to  save 
A  brown-eyed  life,  nor  stay  for  thanks ! 

Alas,  perhaps  our  instinct  feels 
Life  is  not  all  it  might  have  been, 

So  we  applaud  fantastic  reels 
Of  shadow,  cast  upon  a  screen ! 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


SONNETS  IN  A  LODGING  HOUSE 


EACH  morn  she  crackles  upward,   tread  by 
tread, 

All  apprehensive  of  some  hideous  sight: 
Perhaps  the  Fourth  Floor  Back,  who  reads  in  bed, 

Forgot  his  gas  and  let  it  burn  all  night — 
The  Sweet  Young  Thing  who  has   the  middle 

room, 
She   much   suspects:    for   once   some   ink   was 

spilled, 
And  then  the  plumber,  in  an  hour  of  gloom, 

Found  all  the  bathroom  pipes  with  tea-leaves 
filled. 


No  League  of  Nations  scheme  can  make  her  gay — 
She  knows  the  rank  duplicity  of  man; 

Some  folks  expect  clean  towels  every  day, 
They'll  get  away  with  murder  if  they  can! 

She  tacks  a  card  (alas,  few  roomers  mind  it) 

Please  leave  the  tub  as  you  'would  ujish  to  find  it! 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


II 


Men  lodgers  are  the  best,  the  Mrs.  said: 
They  don't  use  my  gas  jets  to  fry  sardines, 
They  don't  leave  red-hot  irons  on  the  spread, 
They're  out  all  morning,  when  a  body  cleans. 
A  man  ain't  so  secretive,  never  cares 
What  kind  of  private  papers  he  leaves  lay, 
So  I  can  get  a  line  on  his  affairs 
And  dope  out  whether  he  is  likely  pay. 
But  women !     Say,  they  surely  get  my  bug ! 
They  stop  their  keyholes  up  with  chewing  gum, 
Spill  grease,  and  hide  the  damage  with  the  rug, 
And  fry  marshmallows  when  their  callers  come. 
They  always  are  behindhand  with  their  rents- 
Take  my  advice  and  let  your  rooms  to  gents ! 


[164] 


A  man  ain't  so  secretive,  never  cares 
What  kind  of  private  papers  he  leaves  lay- 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  HOE  (PRESS) 

ABOUT  these  roaring  cylinders 
Where  leaping  words  and  paper  mate, 
A  sudden  glory  moves  and  stirs — 
An  inky  cataract  in  spate! 

What  voice  for  falsehood  or  for  truth, 
What  hearts  attentive  to  be  stirred — 

How  dimly  understood,  in  sooth, 
The  power  of  the  printed  word! 

These  flashing  webs  and  cogs  of  steel 
Have  shaken  empires,  routed  kings, 

Yet  never  turn  too  fast  to  feel 
The  tragedies  of  humble  things. 

O  words,  be  strict  in  honesty, 

Be  just  and  simple  and  serene; 
.  O  rhymes,  sing  true,  or  you  will  be 
Unworthy  of  this  great  machine! 


CHIMNEYS  MOKE 


DO  YOU  EVER  FEEL  LIKE  GOD? 

ACROSS  the  court  there  rises  the  back  wall 
Of  the  Magna  Carta  Apartments. 
The  other  evening  the  people  in  the  apartment 

opposite 

Had  forgotten  to  draw  their  curtains. 
I  could  see  them  dining:  the  well-blanched  cloth, 
The  silver  and  glass,  the  crystal  water  jug, 
The  meat  and  vegetables;  and  their  clean  pink 

hands 
Outstretched  in  busy  gesture. 

It   was   pleasant   to   watch   them,    they   were   so 

human; 

So  gay,  innocent,  unconscious  of  scrutiny. 
They  were  four:  an  elderly  couple, 
A  young  man,  and  a  girl — with  lovely  shoulders 
Mellow  in  the  glow  of  the  lamp. 
They  were  sitting  over  coffee,  and  I  could  see  their 

hands  talking. 

At  last  the  older  two  left  the  room. 

The  boy  and  girl  looked  at  each  other.  .  .  . 

Like  a  flash,  they  leaned  and  kissed. 

[168] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

Good  old  human  race  that  keeps  on  multiplying! 
A  little  later  I  went  down  the  street  to  the  movies, 
And  there  I  saw  all  four,  laughing  and  joking 

together. 

And  as  I  watched  them  I  felt  like  God — 
Benevolent,  all-knowing,  and  tender. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


RAPID  TRANSIT 

(To  Stephen  Vincent  Benet.) 

CLIMBING  is  easy  and  swift  on  Parnassus! 
Knocking  my  pipe  out,  I  entered  a  book 
shop; 

There  found  a  book  of  verse  by  a  young  poet. 
Comrades  at  once,  how  I  saw  his  mind  glowing! 
Saw  in  his  soul  its  magnificent  rioting — 
Then  I  ran  with  him  on  hills  that  were  windy, 
Basked   and   laughed   with   him   on   sun-dazzled 

beaches, 

Glutted  myself  on  his  green  and  blue  twilights, 
Watched  him  disposing  his  planets  in  patterns, 
Tumbling  his  colors  and  toys  all  before  him. 
I  questioned  life  with  him,  his  pulses  my  pulses; 
Doubted  his  doubts,  too,  and  grieved  for  his  an 
guishes. 

Salted   long   kinship   and   knew   him    from   boy 
hood — 

Pulled  out  my  own  sun  and  stars  from  my  knap 
sack, 

Trying  my  trinkets  with  those  of  his  finding — 
And  as  I  left  the  bookshop 
My  pipe  was  still  warm  in  my  hand. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


CAUGHT  IN  THE  UNDERTOW 

COLIN,  worshipping  some  frail, 
By  self-deprecation  sways  her: 
Calls  himself  unworthy  male, 
Hardly  even  fit  to  praise  her. 

But  this  tactic  insincere 

In  the  upshot  greatly  grieves  him 
When  he  finds  the  lovely  dear 

Quite  implicitly  believes  him. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


TO  HIS  BROWN-EYED  MISTRESS 

Who  Rallied  Him  for  Praising  Blue  Eyes  in  His 
Verses 

IF  SOMETIMES,  in  a  random  phrase 
(For  variation  in  my  ditty), 
I  chance  blue  eyes,  or  gray,  to  praise 
And  seem  to  intimate  them  pretty —  • 

It  is  because  I  do  not  dare 

With  too  unmixed  reiteration 

To  sing  the  browner  eyes  and  hair 
That  are  my  true  intoxication. 

Know,  then,  that  I  consider  brown 
For  ladies'  eyes,  the  only  color; 

And  deem  all  other  orbs  in  town 

(Compared  to  yours),  opaquer,  duller. 

I  pray,  perpend,  my  dearest  dear; 

While  blue-eyed  maids  the  praise  were 

drinking, 
How  insubstantial  was  their  cheer — 

It  was  of  yours  that  I  was  thinking! 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


PEACE 

WHAT  is  this  Peace 
That  statesmen  sign*? 
How  I  have  sought 
To  make  it  mine. 

Where  groaning  cities 

Clang  and  glow 
I  hunted,  hunted, 

Peace  to  know. 

And  still  I  saw 

Where  I  passed  by 
Discarded  hearts,— 

Heard  children  cry. 

By  willowed  waters 

Brimmed  with  rain 
I  thought  to  capture 

Peace  again. 

I  sat  me  down 

My  Peace  to  hoard, 
But  Beauty  pricked  me 

With  a  sword. 

[173] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

For  in  the  stillness 
Something  stirred, 

And  I  was  crippled 
For  a  word. 

There  is  no  peace 
A  man  can  find; 

The  anguish  sits 
His  heart  behind. 

The  eyes  he  loves, 
The  perfect  breast, 

Too  exquisite 

To  give  him  rest. 

This  is  his  curse 
Since  brain  began. 

His  penalty 

For  being  man. 
May,  1919 


[174] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


SONG,  IN  DEPRECATION 
OF  PULCHRITUDE 

BEAUTY  (so  the  poets  say), 
Thou  art  joy  and  solace  great; 
Long  ago,  and  far  away 

Thou  art  safe  to  contemplate, 

Beauty.     But  when  now  and  here, 
Visible  and  close  to  touch, 

All  too  perilously  near, 

Thou  tormentest  us  too  much ! 

In  a  picture,  in  a  song, 

In  a  novel's  conjured  scenes, 
Beauty,  that's  where  you  belong, 

Where  perspective  intervenes. 

But,  my  dear,  in  rosy  fact 

Your  appeal  I  have  to  shirk — 

You  disturb  me,  and  distract 
My  attention  from  my  work! 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


MOUNTED  POLICE 

WATCHFUL,    grave,    he    sits    astride    his 
horse, 

Draped  with  his  rubber  poncho,  in  the  rain; 
He  speaks  the  pungent  lingo  of  "The  Force," 
And  those  who  try  to  bluff  him,  try  in  vain. 

Inured  to  every  mood  of  fool  and  crank, 

Shrewdly  and  sternly  all  the  crowd  he  cons : 

The  rain  drips  down  his  horse's  shining  flank, 
A  figure  nobly  fit  for  sculptor's  bronze. 

O  knight  commander  of  our  city  stress, 
Little  you  know  how  picturesque  you  are ! 

We  hear  you  cry  to  drivers  who  transgress: 
"Say,  that's  a  lielva  place  to  park  your  car!" 


[176] 


Mounted  Police. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


TO  HIS  MISTRESS,   DEPLORING  THAT 
HE  IS  NOT  AN  ELIZABETHAN  GALAXY 

WHY  did  not  Fate  to  me  bequeath  an 
Utterance  Elizabethan*? 
It  would  have  been  delight  to  me 
If  natus  ante  1603. 

My  stuff  would  not  be  soon  forgotten 
If  I  could  write  like  Harry  Wotton. 

I  wish  that  I  could  wield  the  pen 

Like  William  Drummond  of  Hawthornden. 

I  would  not  fear  the  ticking  clock 
If  I  were  Browne  ot  Tavistock. 

For  blithe  conceits  I  would  not  worry 
If  I  were  Raleigh,  or  the  Earl  of  Surrey. 

I  wish  (I  hope  I  am  not  silly*?) 
That  I  could  juggle  words  like  Lyly. 

I  envy  many  a  lyric  champion, 
I.  e.,  viz.,  e.  g.,  Thomas  Campion. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

I  creak  my  rhymes  up  like  a  derrick, 
I  ne'er  will  be  a  Robin  Herrick. 

My  wits  are  dull  as  an  old  Barlow — 
I  wish  that  I  were  Christopher  Marlowe. 

In  short,  I'd  like  to  be  Philip  Sidney, 
Or  some  one  else  of  that  same  kidney. 

For  if  I  were,  my  lady's  looks 
And  all  my  lyric  special  pleading 

Would  be  in  all  the  future  books, 

And  called,  at  college,  Required  Reading. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE  INTRUDER 

AS  I  sat,  to  sift  my  dreaming 
To  the  meet  and  needed  word, 
Came  a  merry  Interruption 
With  insistence  to  be  heard. 

Smiling  stood  a  maid  beside  me, 
Half  alluring  and  half  shy; 

Soft  the  white  hint  of  her  bosom — 
Escapade  was  in  her  eye. 

"I  must  not  be  so  invaded," 
(In  an  anger  then  I  cried) — 

"Can't  you  see  that  I  am  busy? 
Tempting  creature,  stay  outside ! 

"Pearly  rascal,  I  am  writing: 
I  am  now  composing  verse — 

Fie  on  antic  invitation: 

Wanton,  vanish — fly — disperse ! 

"Baggage,  in  my  godlike  moment 
What  have  I  to  do  with  thee?" 

And  she  laughed  as  she  departed — - 
"I  am  Poetry,"  said  she. 

[-181] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


TIT  FOR  TAT 

1    OFTEN  pass  a  gracious  tree 
Whose  name  I  can't  identify, 
But  still  I  bow,  in  courtesy 

It  waves  a  bough,  in  kind  reply. 

I  do  not  know  your  name,  0  tree 
(Are  you  a  hemlock  or  a  pine?) 

But  why  should  that  embarrass  me4? 
Quite  probably  you  don't  know  mine. 


[182] 


r 


Courtesy 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


SONG  FOR  A  LITTLE  HOUSE 

I'M  glad  our  house  is  a  little  house, 
Not  too  tall  nor  too  wide : 
I'm  glad  the  hovering  butterflies 
Feel  free  to  come  inside. 

Our  little  house  is  a  friendly  house. 

It  is  not  shy  or  vain ; 
It  gossips  with  the  talking  trees, 

And  makes  friends  with  the  rain. 

And  quick  leaves  cast  a  shimmer  of  green 

Against  our  whited  walls, 
And  in  the  phlox,  the  courteous  bees 

Are  paying  duty  calls. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE  PLUMPUPPETS 

WHEN  little  heads  weary  have  gone  to  their 
bed, 
When  all  the  good  nights  and  the  prayers  have 

been  said, 

Of  all  the  good  fairies  that  send  bairns  to  rest 
The  little  Plumpuppets  are  those  I  love  best. 


If  your  pillow  is  lumpy,  or  hot,  thin  and  flat, 
The  little  Plumpuppets  know  just  what  they're 

at; 

They  plump  up  the  pillow,  all  soft,  cool  and  fat— 
The  little  Plumpuppets  plump-up  it! 


The  little  Plumpuppets  are  fairies  of  beds: 
They  have  nothing  to  do  but   to  watch  sleepy 

heads; 
They  turn  down  the  sheets  and  they  tuck  you  in 

tight, 
And  they  dance  on  your  pillow  to  wish  you  good 

night ! 

[186] 


The  Plumpuppets 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

No  matter  what  troubles  have  bothered  the  day, 
Though  your  doll  broke  her  arm  or  the  pup  ran 

away; 
Though  your  handles  are  black  with  the  ink  that 

was  spilt — 
Plumpuppets  are  waiting  in  blanket  and  quilt. 

//  your  pillow  is  lumpy,  or  hot,  thin  and  -flat, 
The  little  Plumpuppets  know  just  what  they're 

at; 

They  plump  up  the  pillow,  all  soft,  cool  and  fat — 
The  little  Plumpuppets  plump-up  it! 


[189] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


DANDY  DANDELION 


WHEN  Dandy  Dandelion  wakes 
And  combs  his  yellow  hair, 
The  ant  his  cup  of  dewdrop  takes 

And  sets  his  bed  to  air; 
The  worm  hides  in  a  quilt  of  dirt 

To  keep  the  thrush  away, 
The  beetle  dons  his  pansy  shirt — 
They  know  that  it  is  day! 


And  caterpillars  haste  to  milk 

The  cowslips  in  the  grass; 
The  spider,  in  his  web  of  silk, 

Looks  out  for  flies  that  pass. 
These  humble  people  leap  from  bed, 

They  know  the  night  is  done : 
When  Dandy  spreads  his  golden  head 

They  think  he  is  the  sun ! 
[190] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

Dear  Dandy  truly  does  not  smell 

As  sweet  as  some  bouquets; 
No  florist  gathers  him  to  sell, 

He  withers  in  a  vase; 
Yet  in  the  grass  he's  emperor, 

And  lord  of  high  renown; 
And  grateful  little  folk  adore 

His  bright  and  shining  crown. 


CHIMNEY  SMOKE 


THE  HIGH  CHAIR 

GRIMLY  the  parent  matches  wit  and  will : 
Now,   Weesy,    three   more   spoons!      See 

Tom  the  cat, 

He'd  drink  it.    You  want  to  be  big  and  fat 
Like  Daddy,  don't  you4?      (Careful  now,  don't 

spill!) 
Yes,  Daddy' 11  dance,  and  blow  smoke  through  his 

nose, 

But  you  must  finish  first.    Come,  drink  it  up — 
(Splash!)     Oh,  you  must  keep  both  hands  on  the 

cup. 
All  gone?    Now  for  the  prunes.  .  .  . 

And  so  it  goes. 

This  is  the  battlefield  that  parents  know, 
Where  one  small  splinter  of  old  Adam's  rib 
Withstands  an  entire  household  offering  spoons. 
No  use  to  gnash  your  teeth.     For  she  will  go 
Radiant  to  bed,  glossy  from  crown  to  bib 
With  milk  and  cereal  and  a  surf  of  prunes. 


[192] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


LOVE  AT  FIRST  SIGHT 

NOT  long  ago  I  fell  in  love, 
But  unreturned  is  my  affection — 
The  girl  that  I'm  enamored  of 
Pays  little  heed  in  my  direction. 

I  thought  I  knew  her  fairly  well : 
In  fact,  I'd  had  my  arm  around  her; 

And  so  it's  hard  to  have  to  tell 

How  unresponsive  I  have  found  her. 

For,  though  she  is  not  frankly  rude, 

Her  manners  quite  the  wrong  way  rub  me : 

It  seems  to  me  ingratitude 

To  let  me  love  her — and  then  snub  me ! 

Though  I'm  considerate  and  fond, 

She  shows  no  gladness  when  she  spies  me — 

She  gazes  off  somewhere  beyond 
And  doesn't  even  recognize  me. 

[193] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

Her  eyes,  so  candid,  calm  and  blue, 
Seem  asking  if  I  can  support  her 

In  the  style  appropriate  to 

A  lady  like  her  father's  daughter. 

Well,  if  I  can't  then  no  one  can — 
And  let  me  add  that  I  intend  to: 

She'll  never  know  another  man 
So  fit  for  her  to  be  a  friend  to. 

Not  love  me,  eh*?    She  better  had ! 

By  Jove,  I'll  make  her  love  me  one  day; 
For,  don't  you  see,  I  am  her  Dad, 

And  she'll  be  three  weeks  old  on  Sunday! 


[194] 


.  .  .  It's  hard  to  have  to  tell 

How  unresponsive  I  have  found  her. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


AUTUMN  COLORS 

THE  chestnut  trees  turned  yellow, 
The  oak  like  sherry  browned, 
The  fir,  the  stubborn  fellow, 
Stayed  green  the  whole  year  round. 

But  O  the  bonny  maple 
How  richly  he  does  shine! 
He  glows  against  the  sunset 
Like  ruddy  old  port  wine. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE  LAST  CRICKET 

WHEN    the   bulb   of   the   moon   with 
white  fire  fills 

And  dead  leaves  crackle  under  the  feet, 
When  men  roll  kegs  to  the  cider  mills 
And  chestnuts  roast  on  every  street; 

When  the  night  sky  glows  like  a  hollow  shell 
Of  lustered  emerald  and  pearl, 

The  kilted  cricket  knows  too  well 
His  doom.     His  tiny  bagpipes  skirl. 

Quavering  under  the  polished  stars 
In  stubble,  thicket,  and  frosty  copse 

The  cricket  blows  a  few  choked  bars, 
And  puts  away  his  pipe — and  stops. 


[198] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


TO  LOUISE 

(A  Christinas  Baby,  Now  One  Year  Old.) 

UNDAUNTED  by  a  word  of  grief 
You  came  upon  perplexing  days, 
And  cynics  doubt  their  disbelief 
To  see  the  sky-stains  in  your  gaze. 

Your  sudden  and  inclusive  smile 
And  your  emphatic  tears,  admit 
That  you  must  find  this  life  worth  while, 
So  eagerly  you  clutch  at  it ! 

Your  face  of  triumph  says,  brave  mite, 
That  life  is  full  of  love  and  luck — 
Of  blankets  to  kick  off  at  night, 
And  two  soft  rose-pink  thumbs  to  suck. 

O  loveliest  of  pioneers 
Upon  this  trail  of  long  surprise, 
May  all  the  stages  of  the  years 
Show  such  enchantment  in  your  eyes! 

[199] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

By  parents'  patient  buttonings, 
And  endless  safety  pins,  you'll  grow 
To  ribbons,  garters,  hooks  and  things, 
Up  to  the  Ultimate  Trousseau — 

But  never,  in  your  dainty  prime, 
Will  you  be  more  adored  by  me 
Than  when  you  see,  this  Great  First  Time, 
Lit  candles  on  a  Christmas  Tree ! 

December,  19,19. 


[200] 


.  .  .   When  you  see,  this  Great  First  Time, 
Lit  candles  on  a  Christmas  Tree! 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


CHRISTMAS  EVE 


OUR  hearts  to-night  are  open  wide, 
The  grudge,  the  grief,  are  laid  aside : 
The  path  and  porch  are  swept  of  snow, 
The  doors  unlatched;  the  hearthstones  glow- 
No  visitor  can  be  denied. 


All  tender  human  homes  must  hide 
Some  wistfulness  beneath  their  pride: 
Compassionate  and  humble  grow 
Our  hearts  to-night. 


Let  empty  chair  and  cup  abide! 
Who  knows?    Some  well-remembered  stride 
May  come  as  once  so  long  ago — 
Then  welcome,  be  it  friend  or  foe! 
There  is  no  anger  can  divide 
Our  hearts  to-night. 

[203] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


EPITAPH   ON   THE   PROOFREADER   OF 
THE  ENCYCLOPEDIA  BRITANNICA 

MAJESTIC  tomes,  you  are  the  tomb 
Of  Aristides  Edward  Bloom, 
Who  labored,  from  the  world  aloof, 
In  reading  every  page  of  proof. 

From  A  to  And,  from  Aus  to  Bis 
Enthusiasm  still  was  his; 
From  Cal  to  Cha,  from  Cha  to  Con 
His  soft-lead  pencil  still  went  on. 

But  reaching  volume  Fra  to  Gib, 
He  knew  at  length  that  he  was  sib 
To  Satan;  and  he  sold  his  soul 
To  reach  the  section  Pay  to  Pol. 

Then  Pol  to  Ree,  and  Shu  to  Sub 
He  staggered  on,  and  sought  a  pub. 
And  just  completing  Vet  to  Zym, 
The  motor  hearse  came  round  for  him. 

He  perished,  obstinately  brave: 
They  laid  the  Index  on  his  grave. 

[204] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE  MUSIC  BOX 

AT  SIX — long  ere  the  wintry  dawn — 
There  sounded  through  the  silent  hall 
To  where  I  lay,  with  blankets  drawn 
Above  my  ears,  a  plaintive  call. 

The  Urchin,  in  the  eagerness 

Of  three  years  old,  could  not  refrain; 
Awake,  he  straightway  yearned  to  dress 

And  frolic  with  his  clockwork  train. 

I  heard  him  with  a  sullen  shock. 

His  sister,  by  her  usual  plan, 
Had  piped  us  aft  at  3  o'clock— 

I  vowed  to  quench  the  little  man. 

I  leaned  above  him,  somewhat  stern, 
And  spoke,  I  fear,  with  emphasis — 

Ah,  how  much  better,  parents  learn, 
To  seal  one's  censure  with  a  kiss ! 

Again  the  house  was  dark  and  still, 

Again  I  lay  in  slumber's  snare, 
When  down  the  hall  I  heard  a  trill, 

A  tiny,  tinkling,  tuneful  air— 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

His  music-box!     His  best-loved  toy, 
His  crib  companion  every  night; 

And  now  he  turned  to  it  for  joy 

While  waiting  for  the  lagging  light. 

How  clear,  and  how  absurdly  sad 

Those  tingling  pricks  of  sound  unrolled; 

They  chirped  and  quavered,  as  the  lad 
His  lonely  little  heart  consoled. 

Columbia,  the  Ocean' 'j  Gem — 

(Its  only  tune)  shrilled  sweet  and  faint. 
He  cranked  the  chimes,  admiring  them 

In  vigil  gay,  without  complaint. 

The  treble  music  piped  and  stirred, 
The  leaping  air  that  was  his  bliss; 

And,  as  I  most  contritely  heard, 

I  thanked  the  all-unconscious  Swiss! 

The  needled  jets  of  melody 

Rang  slowlier  and  died  away — 

The  Urchin  slept;  and  it  was  I 
Who  lay  and  waited  for  the  day. 


[206] 


The  Music  Box 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

TO  LUATH 

(Robert  Burns' s  Dog} 

"Darling  Jean"  was  Jean  Armour,  a  "comely 
country  lass"  whom  Burns  met  at  a  penny  wed 
ding  at  Mauchline.  They  chanced  to  be  dancing 
in  the  same  quadrille  when  the  poefs  dog  sprang 
to  his  master  and  almost  upset  some  of  the 
dancers.  Burns  remarked  that  he  wished  he  could 
get  any  of  the  lasses  to  like  him  as  well  as  his 
dog  did. 

Some  days  afterward,  Jean,  seeing  him  pass  as 
she  was  bleaching  clothes  on  the  village  green, 
called  to  him  and  asked  him  if  he  had  yet  got  any 
of  the  lasses  to  like  him  as  well  as  his  dog  did. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  an  acquaintance  that 
coloured  all  of  Burns' s  life. — NATHAN  HASKELL 
DOLE. 

WELL,  Luath,  man,  when  you  came 
prancing 

All  glee  to  see  your  Robin  dancing, 
His  partner's  muslin  gown  mischancing 

You  leaped  for  joy! 

And  little  guessed  what  sweet  romancing 
You  caused,  my  boy ! 

[209] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

With  happy  bark,  that  moment  jolly, 
You  frisked  and  frolicked,  faithful  collie; 
His  other  dog,  old  melancholy, 

Was  put  to  flight- 
But  what  a  tale  of  grief  and  folly 

You  wagged  that  night! 


Ah,  Luath,  tyke,  your  bonny  master 
Whose  lyric  pulse  beat  ever  faster 
Each  time  he  saw  a  lass  and  passed  her 

His  breast  went  bang! 
In  many  a  woful.  heart's  disaster 

He  felt  the  pang! 


Poor  Robin's  heart,  forever  burning, 
Forever  roving,  ranting,  yearning, 
From  you  that  heart  might  have  been 
learning 

To  be  less  fickle ! 
Might  have  been  spared  so  many  a  turning 

And  grievous  prickle! 

[210] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

Your  collie  heart  held  but  one  notion — 
When  Robbie  jigged  in  sprightly  motion 
You  ran  to  show  your  own  devotion 

And  gambolled  too, 
And  so  that  tempest  on  love's  ocean 

Was  due  to  you ! 


Well,  it  is  ower  late  for  preaching 
And  hearts  are  aye  too  hot  for  teaching! 
When  Robin  with  his  eye  beseeching 

By  greenside  came, 
Jeanie — poor  lass — forgot  her  bleaching 

And  yours  the  blame ! 


[211] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THOUGHTS  ON  REACHING  LAND 

1HAD  a  friend  whose  path  was  pain- 
Oppressed  by  all   the  cares  of  earth 
Life  gave  him  little  chance  to  drain 
His  secret  cisterns  of  rich  mirth. 

His  work  was  hasty,  harassed,  vexed  : 
His  dreams  were  laid  aside,  perforce, 

Until — in  this  world,  or  the  next.  .   .  . 
(His  trade?    Newspaper  man,  of  course!) 

What  funded  wealth  of  tenderness, 
What  ingots  of  the  heart  and  mind 

He  must  uneasily  repress 

Beneath  the  rasping  daily  grind. 

But  now  and  then,  and  with  my  aid, 
For  fear  his  soul  be  wholly  lost, 

His  devoir  to  the  grape  he  paid 
To  call  soul  back,  at  any  cost ! 

Then,  liberate  from  discipline, 

Undrugged  by  caution  and  control, 

Through  all  his  veins  came  flooding  in 
The  virtued  passion  of  his  soul ! 

[212] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

His  spirit  bared,  and  felt  no  shame: 

With  holy  light  his  eyes  would  shine- 
See  Truth  her  acolyte  reclaim 
After  the  second  glass  of  wine! 

The  self  that  life  had  trodden  hard 
Aspired,  was  generous  and  free: 

The  glowing  heart  that  care  had  charred 
Grew  flame,  as  it  was  meant  to  be. 

A  pox  upon  the  canting  lot 

Who  call  the  glass  the  Devil's  shape— 
A  greater  pox  where'er  some  sot 

Defiles  the  honor  of  the  grape. 

Then  look  with  reverence  on  wine 

That  kindles  human  brains  uncouth- 
There  must  be  something  part  divine 
In  aught  that  brings  us  nearer  Truth ! 

So — continently  skull  your  fumes 
(Here  let  our  little  sermon  end) 

And  bless  this  X-ray  that  illumes 
The  secret  bosom  of  your  friend ! 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


A  SYMPOSIUM 

THERE  was  a  Russian  novelist 
Whose  name  was  Solugubrious, 
The  reading  circles  took  him  up, 
(They'd  heard  he  was  salubrious.) 

The  women's  club  of  Cripple  Creek 

Soon  held  a  kind  of  seminar 
To  learn  just  what  his  message  was — 

You  know  what  bookworms  women  are. 

The  tea  went  round.     After  five  cups 
(You  should  have  seen  them  bury  tea) 

Dear  Mrs.  Brown  said  what  she  liked 
Was  the  great  man's  sincerity. 

Sweet  Mrs.  Jones  (how  free  she  was 

From  all  besetting  vanity) 
Declared  that  she  loved  even  more 

His  broad  and  deep  humanity. 

Good  Mrs.  Smith,  though  she  disclaimed 
All  thought  of  being  critical, 

Protested  that  she  found  his  work 
A  wee  bit  analytical. 

[214] 


Solugubrious 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

But  Mrs.  Black,  the  President, 
Of  wisdom  found  the  pinnacle: 

She  said,  "Dear  me,  I  always  think 
Those  Russians  are  so  cynical''' 

Well,  poor  old  Solugubrious, 

It's  true  that  they  had  heard  of  him; 

But  neither  Brown,  Jones,  Smith,  nor  Black 
Had  ever  read  a  word  of  him ! 


[217] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


TO  A  TELEPHONE  OPERATOR  WHO 
HAS  A  BAD  COLD 

HOW  hoarse  and  husky  in  my  ear 
Your  usually  cheerful  chirrup: 
You  have  an  awful  cold,  my  dear — 
Try  aspirin  or  bronchial  syrup. 

When  I  put  in  a  call  to-day 

Compassion  stirred  my  humane  blood  red 
To  hear  you  faintly,  sadly,  say 

The  number:  Burray  Hill  dide  hudred! 

I  felt  (I  say)  quick  sympathy 

To  hear  you  croak  in  the  receiver — 

Will  you  be  sorry  too  for  me 

A  month  hence,  when  I  have  hay  fever? 


[218] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


NURSERY  RHYMES  FOR  THE 
TENDER-HEARTED 

(Dedicated  to  Don  Marquis.) 


SCUTTLE,  scuttle,  little  roach- 
How  you  run  when  I  approach : 
Up  above  the  pantry  shelf. 
Hastening  to  secrete  yourself. 

Most  adventurous  of  vermin, 
How  I  wish  I  could  determine 
How  you  spend  your  hours  of  ease, 
Perhaps  reclining  on  the  cheese. 

Cook  has  gone,  and  all  is  dark — 
Then  the  kitchen  is  your  park: 
In  the  garbage  heap  that  she  leaves 
Do  you  browse  among  the  tea  leaves^ 

How  delightful  to  suspect 
All  the  places  you  have  trekked: 
Does  your  long  antenna  whisk  its 
Gentle  tip  across  the  biscuits'? 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

Do  you  linger,  little  soul, 
Drowsing  in  our  sugar  bowl? 
Or,  abandonment  most  utter, 
Shake  a  shimmy  on  the  butter? 

Do  you  chant  your  simple  tunes 
Swimming  in  the  baby's  prunes'? 
Then,  when  dawn  comes,  do  you  slink 
Homeward  to  the  kitchen  sink? 

Timid  roach,  why  be  so  shy? 
We  are  brothers,  thou  and  I. 
In  the  midnight,  like  yourself, 
I  explore  the  pantry  shelf! 


[220] 


In  the  midnight,  like  yourself, 
I  explore  the  pantry  shelf! 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


NURSERY  RHYMES  FOR  THE 
TENDER-HEARTED 

ii 

ROCKABYE,  insect,  lie  low  in  thy  den, 
Father's  a  cockroach,  mother's  a  hen. 
And  Betty,  the  maid,  doesn't  clean  up  the  sink, 
So  you  shall  have  plenty  to  eat  and  to  drink. 

Hushabye,  insect,  behind  the  mince  pies: 
If  the  cook  sees  you  her  anger  will  rise; 
She'll  scatter  poison,  as  bitter  as  gall, 
Death  to  poor  cockroach,  hen,  baby  and  all. 


[223] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


NURSERY  RHYMES  FOR  THE 
TENDER-HEARTED 

in 

THERE  was  a  gay  henroach,  and  what  do 
you  think, 

She  lived  in  a  cranny  behind  the  old  sink — 
Eggshells  and  grease  were  the  chief  of  her  diet; 
She  went  for  a  stroll  when  the  kitchen  was  quiet. 

She  walked  in  the  pantry  and  sampled  the  bread, 
But  when  she  came  back  her  old  husband  was 

dead: 

Long  had  he  lived,  for  his  legs  they  were  fast, 
But  the  kitchen  maid  caught  him  and  squashed 

him  at  last. 


[224] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


NURSERY  RHYMES  FOR  THE 
TENDER-HEARTED 


IV 


I    KNEW  a  black  beetle,  who  lived  down  a 
drain, 
And  friendly  he  was  though  his  manners  were 

plain; 

When  I  took  a  bath  he  would  come  up  the  pipe, 
And  together  we'd  wash  and  together  we'd  wipe. 

Though  mother  would  sometimes  protest  with  a 

sneer 
That  my  choice  of  a  tub-mate  was  wanton  and 

queer, 

A  nicer  companion  I  never  have  seen: 
He  bathed  every  night,   so  he  must  have  been 

clean. 

Whenever  he  heard  the  tap  splash  in  the  tub 
He'd  dash  up  the  drain-pipe  and  wait  for  a  scrub, 
And  often,  so  fond  of  ablution  was  he, 
I'd  find  him  there  floating  and  waiting  for  me. 

[225] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

But  nurse  has  done  something  that  seems  a  great 

shame : 

She  saw  him  there,  waiting,  prepared  for  a  game : 
She  turned  on  the  hot  and  she  scalded  him  sore 
And  he'll  never  come  bathing  with  me  any  more. 


[226] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE  TWINS 

CON  was  a  thorn  to  brother  Pro — 
On   Pro  we   often   sicked  him: 
Whatever  Pro  would  claim  to  know 
Old  Con  would  contradict  him ! 


The  Tzvins 


[227] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


A  PRINTER'S  MADRIGAL 

(Extremely  technical} 

I'D  like  to  have  you  meet  my  wife ! 
I  simply  cannot  keep  from  hinting 
I've  never  seen,  in  all  my  life, 
So  fine  a  specimen  of  printing. 

Her  type  is  not   some   bold-face    font, 
Set  solid.     Nay!     And  I  will  say  out 

That  no  typographer  could  want 
To  see  a  better  balanced  layout. 

A  nice  proportion  of  white  space 

There  is  for  brown  eyes  to  look  large  in, 

And  not  a  feature  in  her  face 

Comes  anywhere  too  near  the  margin. 

Locked  up  with  all  her  sweet  display 
Her  form  will  never  pi.     She's  like  a 

Corrected  proof  marked  stet,  O.  K. — 
And  yet  she  loves  me,  fatface  Pica,! 

[228] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

She  has  a  fine  one-column  head, 

And  like  a  comma  curves  each  eyebrow — 

Her  forehead  has  an  extra  lead 

Which  makes  her  seem  a  trifle  highbrow. 

Her  nose,  italicized  Irevier, 

Too  lovely  to  describe  by  penpoint; 
Her  mouth  is  set  in  peart-,  her  ear 

And  chin  are  comely  Caslon  ten-point. 

Her  cheeks   (a  pink  parenthesis) 

Make  my  pulse  beat   14-em  measure, 

And  such  typography  as  this 

Would  make  De  Vinne  scream  with  pleasure. 

And  so,  of  all  typefounder  chaps 
Her  father's  best,  in  my  opinion; 

She  is  my  NONPAREIL  (IN  CAPS) 
And  I  (in  lower  case)  her  minion: 

I  hope  you  will  not  stand  aloof 

Because  my  metaphors  are  shoppy; 

Of  her  devotion  I've  a  proof — 
I  tell  the  urchin,  Follow  Copy! 


[22Ql 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE  POET  ON  THE  HEARTH 

WHEN  fire  is  kindled  on  the  dogs, 
But  still  the  stubborn  oak  delays, 
Small  embers  laid  above  the  logs 
Will  draw  them  into  sudden  blaze. 

Just  so  the  minor  poet's  part: 
(A  greater  he  need  not  desire) 

The  charcoals  of  his  burning  heart 
May  light  some  Master  into  fire! 


[230] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


O   PRAISE   ME   NOT   THE   COUNTRY 


O   PRAISE  me  not  the  country — 
The  meadows  green  and  cool, 
The  solemn  glow  of  sunsets,   the  hidden  silver 

pool ! 

The  city  for  my  craving, 
Her  lordship  and  her  slaving, 
The  hot  stones  of  her  paving 
For  me,  a  city  fool ! 


O  praise  me  not  the  leisure 
Of  gardened  country  seats, 
The  fountains  on  the  terrace  against  the  summer 

heats — . 

The  city  for  my  yearning, 
My  spending  and  my  earning. 
Her  winding  ways  for  learning, 
Sing  hey !  the  city  streets ! 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

0  praise  me  not  the  country, 
Her  sycamores  and  bees, 

1  had  my  youthful  plenty  of  sour  apple  trees ! 

The  city  for  my  wooing, 
My  dreaming  and  my  doing; 
Her  beauty  for  pursuing, 

Her  deathless  mysteries. 


O  praise  me  not  the  country, 

Her  evenings  full  of  stars, 

Her  yachts  upon  the  water  with  the  wind  among 

their  spars— 

The  city  for  my  wonder, 
Her  glory  and  her  blunder, 
And  O  the  haunting  thunder 
Of  the  Elevated  cars! 


[232] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


A   STONE  IN   ST.    PAUL'S   GRAVEYARD 

(New  York) 

Here  Lyes  the  Body  of 
lohn  Jones  the  Son  of 
lohn  Jones  Who  Departed 
This  Life  December  the  /j 
1768  Aged  4  Years  &  4  Months 
&  2  Days 

HERE,  where  enormous  shadows  creep, 
He  casts  his  childish  shadow  too: 
How  small  he  seems,  beneath  the  steep 
Great  walls;  his  tender  days,  so  few, 
Lovingly  numbered,  every  one — 
John  Jones,  John  Jones's  little  son. 

O  sunlight  on  the  Lightning's  wings! 

Yet  though  our  buildings  skyward  climb 
Our  heartbreaks  are  but  little  things 

In  the  equality  of  Time. 
The  sum  of  life,  for  all  men's  stones : 
He  was  John  Jones,  son  of  John  Jones. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  CURB 


o 


N  the  curb  of  a  city  pavement, 
By  the  ash  and  garbage  cans, 


In  the  stench  and  rolling  thunder 
Of  motor  trucks  and  vans, 

There  sits  my  little  lady, 

With  brave  but  troubled  eyes, 

And  in  her  arms  a  baby 

That  cries  and  cries  and  cries, 


She  cannot  be  more  than  seven; 

But  years  go  fast  in  the  slums, 
And  hard  on  the  pains  of  winter 

The  pitiless  summer  comes. 
The  wail  of  sickly  children 

She  knows;  she  understands 
The  pangs  of  puny  bodies, 

The  clutch  of  small  hot  hands. 

In  the  deadly  blaze  of  August, 

That  turns  men  faint  and  mad, 
She  quiets  the  peevish  urchins 

[236] 


The  wail  of  sickly  children 
She  knows;  she  understands 

The  pangs  of  puny  bodies, 

The  clutch  of  small  hot  hands. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

By  telling  a  dream  she  had — 
A  heaven  with  marble  counters, 

And  ice,  and  a  singing  fan; 
And  a  God  in  white,  so  friendly, 

Just  like  the  drug-store  man. 

Her  ragged  dress  is  dearer 

Than  the  perfect  robe  of  a  queen! 
Poor  little  lass,  who  knows  not 

The  blessing  of  being  clean. 
And  when  you  are  giving  millions 

To  Belgian,  Pole  and  Serb, 
Remember  my  pitiful  lady — 

Madonna  of  the  Curb! 


[239] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


A 


THE  ISLAND 

SONG  for  England? 
Nay,  what  is  a  song  for  England? 


Our  hearts  go  by  green-cliffed  Kinsale 

Among  the  gulls'  \vhite  wings, 
Or  where,  on  Kentish  forelands  pale 

The  lighthouse  beacon  swings: 
Our  hearts  go  up  the  Mersey's  tide, 

Come  in  on  Suffolk  foam — 
The  blood  that  will  not  be  denied 

Moves  fast,  and  calls  us  home ! 


Our  hearts  now  walk  a  secret  round 

On  many  a  Cotswold  hill, 
For  we  are  mixed  of  island  ground, 

The  island  draws  us  still : 
Our  hearts  may  pace  a  windy  turn 

Where  Sussex  downs  are  high, 
Or  watch  the  lights  of  London  burn, 

A  bonfire  in  the  sky! 
[240] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

What  is  the  virtue  of  that  soil 

That  flings  her  strength  so  wide*? 
Her  ancient  courage,  patient  toil, 

Her  stubborn  wordless  pride4? 
A  little  land,  yet  loved  therein 

As  any  land  may  be,  *\ 

Rejoicing  in  her  discipline, 

The  salt  stress  of  the  sea. 

Our  hearts  shall  walk  a  Sherwood  track, 

Our  lips  taste  English  rain, 
We  thrill  to  see  the  Union  Jack 

Across  some  deep-sea  lane; 
Though  all  the  world  be  of  rich  cost 

And  marvellous  with  worth, 
Yet  if  that  island  ground  were  lost 

How  empty  were  the  earth! 

A  song  for  England? 

Lo,    every    word    we    speak's    a    song    for 
England. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


SUNDAY  NIGHT 


TWO  grave  brown  eyes,  severely  bent 
Upon  a  memorandum  book— 
A  sparkling  face,  on  which  are  blent 

A  hopeful  and  a  pensive  look; 
A  pencil,  purse,  and  book  of  checks 

With  stubs  for  varying  amounts — 
Elaine,  the  shrewdest  of  her  sex, 
Is  busy  balancing  accounts. 


Sedately,  in  the  big  armchair, 

She,  all  engrossed,  the  audit  scans— 
Her  pencil  hovers  here  and  there 

The  while  she  calculates  and  plans; 
What's  this?     A  faintly  pensive  frown 

Upon  her  forehead  gathers  now — 
Ah,  does  the  butcher — heartless  clown — • 

Beget  that  shadow  on  her  brow*? 

[242] 


Ah,  does  the  butcher — heartless  clown — 
Beget  that  shadow  on  her  brow? 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

A  murrain  on  the  tradesman  churl 

Who  caused  this  fair  accountant's  gloom! 
Just  then — a  baby's  cry — my  girl 

Arose  and  swiftly  left  the  room. 
Then  in  her  purse  by  stratagem 

I  thrust  some  bills  of  small  amounts — 
She'll  think  she  had  forgotten  them, 

And  smile  again  at  her  accounts! 


o 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

ENGLAND,   JULY    1913 

To  Rupert  Brooke 

ENGLAND,  England  .  .  .  that  July 
How  placidly  the  days  went  by! 


Two  years  ago  (how  long  it  seems) 
In  that  dear  England  of  my  dreams 
I  loved  and  smoked  and  laughed  amain 
And  rode  to  Cambridge  in  the  rain. 
A  careless  godlike  life  was  there! 
To  spin  the  roads  with  Skofover, 
To  dream  while  punting  on  the  Cam, 
To  lie,  and  never  give  a  damn 
For  anything  but  comradeship 
And  books  to  read  and  ale  to  sip, 
And  shandygaff  at  every  inn 
When  The  Gorilla  rode  to  Lynn! 
O  world  of  wheel  and  pipe  and  oar 
In  those  old  days  before  the  War. 

0  poignant  echoes  of  that  time! 

1  hear  the  Oxford  towers  chime, 
The  throbbing  of  those  mellow  bells 
And  all  the  sweet  old  English  smells — 

[2461 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

The  Deben  water,  quick  with  salt, 

The  Woodbridge  brew-house  and  the  rnalt; 

The  Suffolk  villages,  serene 

With  lads  at  cricket  on  the  green, 

And  Wytham  strawberries,  so  ripe, 

And  Murray's  Mixture  in  my  pipe! 

In  those  dear  days,  in  those  dear  days, 
All  pleasant  lay  the  country  ways; 
The  echoes  of  our  stalwart  mirth 
Went  echoing  wide  around  the  earth 
And  in  an  endless  bliss  of  sun 
We  lay  and  watched  the  river  run. 
And  you  by  Cam  and  I  by  Isis 
Were  happy  with  our  own  devices. 

Ah,  can  we  ever  know  again 

Such  friends  as  were  those  chosen  men, 

Such  men  to  drink,  to  bike,  to  smoke  with, 

To  worship  with,  or  lie  and  joke  with*? 

Never  again,  my  lads,  we'll  see 

The  life  we  led  at  twenty-three. 

Never  again,  perhaps,  shall  I 

Go  flashing  bravely  down  the  High 

To  see,  in  that  transcendent  hour, 

The  sunset  glow  on  Magdalen  Tower. 

[247] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

Dear  Rupert  Brooke,  your  words  recall 

Those  endless  afternoons,  and  all 

Your  Cambridge — which  I  loved  as  one 

Who  was  her  grandson,  not  her  son. 

O  ripples  where  the  river  slacks 

In  greening  eddies  round  the  "backs" ; 

Where  men  have  dreamed  such  gallant  things 

Under  the  old  stone  bridge  at  King's. 

Or  leaned  to  feed  the  silver  swans 

By  the  tennis  meads  at  John's. 

O  Granta's  water,  cold  and  fresh, 

Kissing  the  warm  and  eager  flesh 

Under  the  willow's  breathing  stir — 

The  bathing  pool  at  Grantchester.  .  .  . 

What  words  can  tell,  what  words  can  praise 

The  burly  savor  of  those  days! 


Dear  singing  lad,  those  days  are  dead 

And  gone  for  aye  your  golden  head; 

And  many  other  well-loved  men 

Will  never  dine  in  Hall  again. 

I  too  have  lived  remembered  hours 

In  Cambridge;  heard  the  summer  showers 

Make  music  on  old  Heffer's  pane 

While  I  was  reading  Pepys  or  Taine. 

Through  Trumpington  and  Grantchester 

[248] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

I  used  to  roll  on  Shotover; 
At  Hauxton  Bridge  my  lamp  would  light 
And  sleep  in  Royston  for  the  night. 
Or  to  Five  Miles  from  Anywhere    , 
I  used  to  scull;  and  sit  and  swear 
While  wasps  attacked  my  bread  and  jam 
Those  summer  evenings  on  the  Cam. 
(O  crispy  English  cottage-loaves 
Baked  in  ovens,  not  in  stoves ! 
O  white  unsalted  English  butter 
O  satisfaction  none  can  utter!)   .  .  . 


To  think  that  while  those  joys  I  knew 
In  Cambridge,  I  did  not  know  you. 

July,  1915. 


[249] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


CASUALTY 

AWELL-SHARP'D   pencil  leads   one  on  to 
write : 

When  guns  are  cocked,  the  shot  is  guaranteed; 
The  primed  occasion  puts  the  deed  in  sight : 
Who  steals  a  book  who  knows  not  how  to  read"? 

Seeing  a  pulpit,  who  can  silence  keep? 
A  maid,  who  would  not  dream  her  ta'en  to  wife? 
Men  looking  down  from  some  sheer  dizzy  steep 
Have  (quite  impromptu)  leapt,  and  ended  life. 


[250] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


A    GRUB    STREET    RECESSIONAL 

O  NOBLE  gracious  English  tongue 
Whose  fibers  we  so  sadly  twist, 
For  caitiff  measures  he  has  sung 
Have  pardon  on  the  journalist. 

For  mumbled  meter,  leaden  pun, 
For  slipshod  rhyme,  and  lazy  word, 
Have  pity  on  this  graceless  one — 
Thy  mercy  on  Thy  servant,  Lord! 

The  metaphors  and  tropes  depart, 
Our  little  clippings  fade  and  bleach : 
There  is  no  virtue  and  no  art 
Save  in  straightforward  Saxon  speech. 

Yet  not  in  ignorance  or  spite, 
Nor  with  Thy  noble  past  forgot 
We  sinned:  indeed  we  had  to  write 
To  keep  a  fire  beneath  the  pot. 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 

Then  grant  that  in  the  coming  time, 
With  inky  hand  and  polished  sleeve, 
In  lucid  prose  or  honest  rhyme 
Some  worthy  task  we  may  achieve — 

Some  pinnacled  and  marbled  phrase, 
Some  lyric,  breaking  like  the  sea, 
That  we  may  learn,  not  hoping  praise, 
The  gift  of  Thy  simplicity. 


[252] 


CHIMNEYSMOKE 


PRELIMINARY    INSTRUCTIONS    FOR   A 

FUNERAL   SERVICE:      BEING  A 

POEM  IN  FOUR  STANZAS 

SAY  this  poor  fool  misfeatured  all  his  days, 
And  could  not  mend  his  ways; 
And  say  he  trod 
Most  heavily  upon  the  corns  of  God. 

But  also  say  that  in  his  clabbered  brain 

There  was  the  essential  pain — 

The  idiot's  vow 

To  tell  his  troubled  Truth,  no  matter  how. 

Unhappy  fool,  you  say,  with  pitiful  air: 

Who  was  he,  then,  and  where? 

Ah,  you  divine 

He  lives  in  your  heart,  as  he  lives  in  mine. 


l>J3l 


/===========~-_ __ 

So 


SBM 


*J>  2I-, 


FEB  221935 
APR    8 


141931 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


